Heart of the Guardian
by thewandcrafter
Summary: When both Severus Snape and Harry Potter survive, against all odds, they must renegotiate their relationship... and save each other all over again. This is a MENTORING/adoption fic, not slash. It is canon -compliant and begins immediately post-battle. It's rated Teen - for everyone 13 and up. Mild cussing in one or two chapters, some angst.
1. Full Disclosure and Dedication

Heart of the Guardian

**By**

Carol Oster

thewandcrafter

© 2011

**_DISCLAIMER:_**

**The characters, settings and the like herein belong to J.K. Rowling**.  
No copyright infringement is intended. I've written this for my own enjoyment, and the enjoyment of other Potter fans, with no intent to profit from it.

The story and text, except where directly quoted from Rowling's previous publications, are entirely mine, and are not associated with or approved by J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Warner Brothers,  
or anyone else with copyright claim to anything Harry Potter in any way.  
At all. Muggle or Wizard. Including Flourish and Blotts'.

Any trauma you may experience while reading yet another rollercoaster of a story is totally my fault, and not Harry's, Ron's, Hermione's, Snape's, Dumbledore's, McGonagall's, Peeves',  
the twins', the Marauders', Queen Rowling's,  
or even  
Seamus Finnigan's.

To Keith, Alex, Apple, Emily, Evans, Cass, Gordon, Jess, and Skylark,  
as well as everyone else associated with  
The Magic is Might Experience 2011.  
Thank you all – it was extraordinary!

To Sara who is my tolerant and willing muse in all things Potter.

To Keo who believes I can do anything.

To Susen James, for aiding and abetting this travesty of justice.

And most of all – to Jo Rowling… for changing our lives.


	2. The Shrieking Shack

THE SHRIEKING SHACK

The tall, thin, dark-haired man clad in solid black flowing robes pushed open the wrought iron gate. His hand barely trembled, though his heart beat a desperate tempo, as though it would escape this confrontation. He stopped a moment, fighting the urge to turn away, or at least to retreat into the cool intellectual façade he had cultivated these past eighteen years or more.

A hand touched his elbow and he turned his glittering black eyes to look down into the boy's startlingly green ones, searching the boy's face.

"It'll be okay," the boy said softly.

Black eyes held on green, so much calmer and more at peace than his own. He drew courage from the unflagging acceptance and understanding he saw there. He took a breath, still keeping eye contact, straightened his hunched shoulders, tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, and gave a sharp nod.

The boy turned to accompany him, but he drew away, shaking his head.

"I have to do this myself," he said, his voice trembling as lightly as the hand he drew across his brow. He shook his head, admonishing himself. _Pull yourself together! _he ordered.

_You're Slytherin, not Gryffindor, _came an internal, snide rejoinder. He kicked that part of himself into silence. _Not anymore._

_Sometimes I think we sort too soon, _another voice echoed. That had been said sadly, at one time, but it rang in his memory supportively now. The man looked down at the boy and raised a hand to cup the boy's head, pulling the boy to him in a brief embrace.

"I can do this," he murmured into the dark hair. "Give me a few minutes, will you?" The boy nodded wordlessly against him.

Pulling away from the boy, he straightened his thin shoulders again, and turned back to the small graveyard, searching with his eyes.

"That way," the boy pointed. The man nodded and resolutely set off in the direction the boy indicated, feeling the boy's gaze following him. He _must _do this.

His steps took him unerringly to the marker he sought, directed as much by the boy's nearly tangible support as by logic, following the state of care or decay to gauge the age of the gravestones, unconsciously processing dates, flinching every now and then at a familiar surname, not allowing himself to fend off that awareness. This, too, was his penance. This, too, he must bear.

He forbade himself distance, despite the dread pulling at his feet as he neared the marker. But he _would_ do this. He demanded it of himself. He owed it to them… and to the boy. And… he could not move forward without it. He stopped in front of the white stone, two names, two dates of birth, a single, shared last day.

His breath caught in his suddenly-constricted throat, and his heart beat madly, painfully, in his chest, threatening to escape all on its own. And then hot tears burned their way down his face, and his legs threatened to give way.

But the boy would be watching, and he did not want to worry him. Tears the boy would tolerate, but if he allowed himself to collapse, the boy would come to him, and he was not ready for that yet. He _had_ to see this through on his own. He placed a hand on the marker to steady himself and looked down at the inscription, blurred by his tears.

_The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed Is Death_

"Lily," he said, his light baritone trembling, cracking, and he nearly gave way. But once begun, he could go on –_would _go on. For the boy. For himself. For their future.

He tried again.

"Lily," he whispered, his voice stronger. He shifted his gaze to the other name. "James." A black brow lifted ruefully, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward.

He could picture them… not as he had last seen them himself, but as they were in the silver-framed picture the boy kept on his bedside table… and as they had been in the boy's memories he had seen once in a disastrously failed Occlumency lesson – in the Mirror of Erised and in another graveyard, protecting the boy from the menace that the man himself had set loose on him.

The thought nearly undid him… but that was over and done, and the boy was _safe… safe… safe._ The depth of gratitude he felt for that welled up inside of him. It freshened his tears and the painful constricting of his heart, but it also gave him strength. He began again.

"I…" How to begin… how to go on? "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It is my fault… my fault you were taken from him, my fault he was in danger. All those years…" He choked on remembered fear, his chest tightening against the pain of it, images crashing over him, a tidal wave of fear, regret… always, _always_ fear...

The boy, barely eleven, was nearly falling from his broom high above the Quidditch pitch, his hold shaken loose by some curse coming from who knew where. The man frantically uttered counter curses, not even daring nonverbal spells lest they falter, fail in strength, lead to the boy's death… The man and others frantically searching for the boy when he and his two friends had gone missing… The boy's battered body lying on the bed in the infirmary, tiny and frightening in its stillness, cuts and bruises covering him head to toe after a shocking, impossible confrontation, his thin chest barely moving as he lay there… The Headmaster ordering him away lest the boy wake and find him there.

His own anger at the foolish, _foolish_ boy bizarrely covered in blood and ink from his determined attempt to save his best mate's sister, heedless of the danger to himself.

His desperate fear when the one he thought had betrayed them – Lily, James, the boy – escaped the hellish prison guarded by the Dementors, sure the traitor would get to the boy, and his unheeded pleas for the Headmaster to see sense when the traitor breached the castle's defenses, got to the sleeping boy's dorm room. His horrified panic making him dare to confront not only the traitor but the werewolf, alone, frantic to get to the boy lest they finish the dirty work they had begun – together no doubt – twelve years earlier… Never quite trusting that he'd been wrong, despite the boy's – and Dumbledore's – insistence, until the true traitor had shown himself at the disastrous, terrifying reunion of the Death Eaters a year later.

Each summer, watching the boy from afar, not trusting the Squib to be alert, to keep watch, his fading trust in Dumbledore ramping up his anxiety, only to have the boy attacked by Dementors when one of the Order proved unreliable.

Fear constricted the man's throat and chest when the boy's name came out of the Cup his fourth year – _too young, not ready, too young! _And the breathtaking risk of allowing him to compete, hoping against hope that the villain responsible could be caught, a threat to the boy negated. Gripping his wand, ready to intervene when that damned Hungarian Horntail attacked, anger at Dumbledore warring with fear – _Could he not have managed an easier, tamer dragon for the boy? Could he not have begun with something less dangerous?_ – only to sink back in sweaty relief when the boy managed the task, angry with himself for giving a damn. Gripping the railing of the stands in the middle of the Black Lake, waiting – hours it seemed, not just the one – for the boy to resurface, shaken anew by his anger when he realized the boy had put himself in danger _yet again_ to save others. Pacing around the labyrinth, desperate to penetrate its darkness to assure himself the boy was safe… only to have him return with the body of the older boy – dead… His sudden realization that the boy was no longer near and the wild flight into the castle, fear cramping in his chest, hoping he was not too late, Dumbledore and McGonagall at his heels –_tooclosetooclosetooclose!_

_Severus… you know what I must ask you to do… Are you ready?_

_Anything_. Anything to protect the boy, Lily's son. Anything to atone, though even his life would not be enough… would never be enough.

So he protected – or tried to protect – not just the boy but also those he loved, and all those who should never have been at risk.

A blond-haired, grey-eyed boy trembled in his arms… but he, too, was _safe, safe, safe now. _Though his protection had failed with others the black-haired boy needed and loved – his godfather and other men who had loved and protected him, and too many other innocent witches, wizards and children.

_He's got Padfoot. He's got Padfoot at the place where it's hidden._

Finding the boy gone, the wild flight to warn the Order, desperate that they get to the boy and his friends… praying they would find them all, keep them safe…

It was always the boy, though, around whom the images hurled themselves in memory, a jumble of stabbing fear alternating with burning anger, and always more and growing fear. The boy hated him. He bore it. Nothing the boy hurled at him, no accusation, no blame, no hatred was unwarranted, even when it was based on incomplete truth. His own self-loathing was greater.

The image of his own protector, his mentor, falling from the tower…

_Severus… please…_

_He trusted you!_

_Fight back! Fight back, you COWARD!_

He bore it, because it was merited. He bore it because he must – to protect the boy.

An abysmal, terrifying year, achingly lonely, bereft of even the grudging respect of colleagues, bereft of Dumbledore's support but for the counsel of his portrait – _still scheming_, still manipulating, still maddeningly working_for the greater good _rather than to protect the boy. Bereft of knowledge of whether the boy was even alive, save for his hope and the fact that the Dark Lord was not – yet – crowing in victory… Watching a colleague die for sport… Watching the grey-eyed boy used and abused and frightened, unable to do anything in support, certain the boy would have spurned any such offer, having lost even that child's faith… Watching the school become a prison, shielding the students as best he could, utterly, utterly helpless to protect the dark-haired, green-eyed boy. He'd never felt so lonely, so alone, so worthless… impotent. Not even as a child.

But he bore it, hoping against hope that the boy was safe, that Lily's son would – somehow – survive, that he would find a way to bring the Dark Lord down and set the boy free.

_He will come. He will look for something in Ravenclaw Tower. See to it that he does not find it, Severus – and bring him to me._

_Let me find the boy, my Lord, let me bring him to you._

_No._

_Nagini… kill._

It was not death he feared, but failure. And he had failed. He knew it. Despair keened up from within him, but he opened his eyes to see Lily's eyes – the boy's eyes – hovering anxiously, uncertainly, over his.

He wanted to tell him to flee, to save himself. He wanted to take the boy with him, where Voldemort would not be able to reach him. And then, thinking himself dead, he gave the boy the only thing he had left – the truth. "Take it," he pleaded, desperate that the boy understand, his last effort to help him, save him – though by then he knew he could not save him… and he lay crumpled between the wall and the floor, boneless, bloodless – dying he thought – while the battle raged at a distance, terrifying flashes of elemental energy, pressure building against his ears, his brain, his very being as he waited for the certain knowledge that he had failed… that the boy was dead… willing himself to die… wishing he had died all those years before… anything to keep the boy _safe, safe, safe._

Consciousness came and went as his life ebbed… slowly… so slowly. Drop by drop, it bled out of him. This too, he merited. So he bore it, blaming himself, tolerating it… holding onto it as if he could impale himself on it even more deeply. He deserved it, this death, alone, hated… he had earned it, all those years ago. He deserved it.

Later… much later… he cried out – anger, anguish, fear, failure – at a sudden green brightness that seemed to surround and fill the shack, accompanied by what was surely the echoing crack of an _Avada Kedavra_ curse, his courage fleeing at last in his weakened state, certain that the Dark Lord had won, that the boy had finally died, and his sobs of remorse and loss mingled with his desire to die. _Kill me. Kill me. Oh why am I not dead? I want to die. Merlin… oh gods, kill me._

A crooning song confused him, and he struggled to open his eyes, wondering what other deathly threat was upon him, a flaming red _something – _too near, but he had no strength to back away or to cry out again. He blinked away tears of frustration, pain, anguish at his failure, fear for the boy's end… _had it happened?_ A phoenix… from where, he did not know – a final gift, perhaps, of his fallen mentor.

"Fawkes," he gasped, and his tears mingled with those of the bird, burning and searing, and then… another green flash so that he cried out before he was lost to death once again…

Darkness. Warmth. Something soft beneath him, something soft atop him, holding him down. He fought his way to the surface. _I must get to the boy. I must keep him safe._ But darkness and failure dragged him down again into grief-stricken, fearful nightmares, from which he half woke again and again, desperate to get to the boy, to save him. _But no – it was already too late – he was already dead. Wasn't he?_ Then he would sink back into the hell from which he could not escape. _He's dead. The Dark Lord has won._ And he would burn in hell forever for his failure, and the sin he had committed so many years before.

He came to more completely, enough to wonder at it. It was dark. Still the shack, then, though the surface beneath him was much too soft, and he was much too warm, for that. _How long does it take to die?_ His crusted eyes resisted his efforts to open them. Perhaps silver Sickles pressed them closed, the ferryman's fee. Perhaps he was already entombed. Then his fright – for the boy, not himself – overcame him again, and something pressed him down, down, down, back into a nightmare-filled sleep, from which he thrashed his way to the surface again. _I must get to the boy!_

* * *

_Chapter 1 of 30. To be continued..._


	3. Rescue

Disclaimer: Not my people. Not my universe. Those belong to our beloved J.K. Rowling. The plot is mine, though, and I love it dearly. Hope you do as well. Feedback is craved, relished, chewed thoughtfully and digested completely. Review here or find me on Facebook or .uk as Carol Oster. No galleons accrued to my bank account as a result of this story. No dragons were harmed in its crafting.

* * *

Chapter Two  
RESCUE

Harry sat on a chair McGonagall had transfigured into something more comfortable than the usual visitor's chair, one leg tucked under him, one hanging over the padded arm, reading a book he'd found on one of the crammed, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the Headmaster's living quarters. He'd meant to read it to the man, thinking the familiar topic would soothe him in his sleep. He'd begun reading a chapter on "Potions for the Perturbed". The words were difficult, Latinate, and the concepts dense, so he stopped reading aloud – briefly, he'd intended – to figure it out before continuing, loath to sound ignorant in front of the professor despite Snape's continued unconsciousness. But he'd gotten engrossed, thinking that perhaps he would find something that he could suggest to Madam Pomfrey, or Smethwyck, the healer from St. Mungo's who came once a day to check the professor's condition.

"Time. That's what he needs – just time. And Blood Replenishing Potion, of course, as well as nutrients and anti-venom – those bites nearly did him in," Smethwyck had said just that morning, bouncing on his toes with obscene cheer, in Harry's opinion.

Harry thought it had taken quite enough time already, but as he looked at Snape's gaunt face and shockingly thin frame – _Had he looked like this all year? _ – he acknowledged the man probably needed all the rest he could get, before they woke him or he woke on his own. Still he worried. Would the man _never_ wake up?

It had been weeks – five weeks to the day – since the Battle for Hogwarts had been won, Tom Riddle vanquished forever, the last of the horcruxes destroyed – by Tom's own misguided, uncomprehending hand. Harry fingered his scar absently as he read.

The work to rebuild Hogwarts was well under way, but the infirmary was warded against the noise of workers from the Department of Magical Maintenance swarming over the walls and staircases. A surprising number of students had elected to stay to finish out the year, some of their families quartered nearby in Hogsmeade, put up by Aberforth at the Hog's Head Inn or Rosmerta at The Three Broomsticks, or taken in by residents, whether relatives or not. The faculty, wanting to restore some semblance of normalcy, was holding the final weeks' classes outdoors or in the few areas of the school undamaged in the fight. Professor Sprout's greenhouses were pressed into service whenever it rained; they had escaped most of the damage. Hagrid met with his students in his cabin or at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, watched over by Magorian, Bane, Ronan and the rest of Firenze's herd. When not in class, nearly everyone helped with the reconstruction.

The reconstituted Board of Governors had tried to appoint Minerva McGonagall Headmistress, but she adamantly refused, with Kingsley Shacklebolt's support, informing them curtly that, as the Headmaster was merely ill and not dead, she would only consent to serve as _Acting _Headmistress until his full recovery. And just as adamantly, refused to move into the Headmaster's office, though she went there frequently to consult Dumbledore or the other portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses regarding the school's reconstruction and the resetting of the protective wards.

Harry's mind wandered from his reading to recall his interview with Professor McGonagall the morning after the battle. He'd slept the day through, to the next morning, exhausted emotionally as well as physically, guarded by Kreacher and Winky – and Neville Longbottom, Godric Gryffindor's sword across his knees as he sat guard from a chair between his own bed and Harry's. Ron and Hermione had curled up together, clinging to each other in their mixed grief and relief, in Ron's old four-poster in Gryffindor Tower, which – by some miracle – was intact enough to be safely occupied. When he woke, he left Ron and Hermione sleeping and, over the protests of his guard, went in search of his old Head of House. She had been skeptical, frankly disbelieving, when he'd told her the story, but he'd insisted that she – and then Kingsley and Arthur Weasley – visit the memories he'd left swirling in silver in the Pensieve in Dumbledore's office.

"My God," Mr. Weasley had rasped as he pulled out of the memories. He wiped a hand across his face and turned. "Harry… I…"

"No," Harry had said, shaking his head at the sympathy in the man's blue eyes. "No – not for me, Mr. Weasley. For Snape. You had to know. He… he was trying to save me… to save all of us."

Kingsley cleared his throat, his eyes shining with unshed tears, his deep voice calming all of them, stilling McGonagall's sniffles with a single question: "Where is he now?"

"He… he's in the Shrieking Shack. Could… could someone go get him? I don't want to leave him there, even though he's… dead." The last word fell heavily into the silence. Kingsley cleared his throat again.

"I'll go."

"I'll go with you," Mr. Weasley said, insisting when Kingsley put out a hand to stop him. "I need to be _doing_ something… and you'll need help bringing him back… a guard, if nothing else."

Kingsley acknowledged this with a rueful grunt, and the men had set off, expecting to bring back Snape's body. But as Harry and McGonagall sat in Dumbledore's office – _Snape's office, _Harry was suddenly aware – there'd been a flash, accompanied by a sharp crack, and a single, golden feather, tipped in red, had floated down into Harry's lap.

"Severus!" Dumbledore's portrait had gasped. "_He's alive._"

"_What_? _HOW?"_

Harry leapt to his feet and looked wildly around, expecting to see his old potions professor striding, impossibly, through the door, snidely commenting _Potter, your lamentable inability to reason beyond the evidence before you would be laughable if it weren't so utterly thickheaded. _But of course, that did not happen.

"The Shack," Dumbledore uttered urgently, and Harry and McGonagall met each other's eyes in stunned disbelief before racing each other out the door and down the shattered stairs to what was left of the entrance hall, picking their way as quickly as they could manage across the grounds to the Whomping Willow.

"Potter! Wait!" McGonagall shouted, but Harry quickly outstripped her, fear and hope giving his feet wings. Urgent murmurs met him just as he reached the tree, unnaturally still as if cooperating, for once, with the rescue of the man who had been in danger here before, twice.

Seconds later, Mr. Weasley burst from the opening, his wand held aloft, shouting "_PROTEGO!_" Harry was thrust back a dozen feet as Mr. Weasley spun around, his wand extended, ready to hex anything that moved.

Snape floated out next, followed by a grief-stricken Shacklebolt, his wand leveled at the body, hoarsely repeating "Mobilicorpus… Mobilicorpus… Mobilicorpus…" Harry rushed to help, impeded by Mr. Weasley's shield, as the man, wild-eyed, jumped to place himself between Harry and Snape.

"Mr. Weasley – it's me! Mr. Weasley, it's Harry! Let me help!"

"Arthur," panted Professor McGonagall, wheezing and placing one hand on Harry's shoulder, the other at her throat as she worked to catch her breath.

Mr. Weasley finally blinked. "Harry – it's Snape. He's…"

"Alive – I know! The castle… Madam Pomfrey…"

"Severus…" McGonagall whispered, horrified, frightened, as she took in Snape's limp, bloodied form, but Harry could barely bring himself to look as he joined his wand to Shacklebolt's to support the suspension spell, careful not to jostle the mortally wounded man, so pale and still he felt sure Dumbledore was wrong. They turned him sideways to angle him between two boulders, thrown by some blast across the smoothest path from the willow to the castle, and blood trickled from a wound in his neck, leaving a dotted trail on the grass. Professor McGonagall began chanting a sing-song charm whose tune was vaguely familiar to Harry, reminding him of a Sectumsempra curse gone horribly wrong, and Snape bending over the bloody torso of Draco Malfoy, singing in his own silky, melodious baritone while Harry shivered and watched. _Vulnera Sanentur… Vulnera Sanentur… _His heart seized in his chest and he urged them on. _Faster!_

The four of them uttered their spells continuously, McGonagall's a melodic undertone to the drumbeat of continual levitation and shield charms in Shacklebolt's bass, Mr. Weasley's baritone and Harry's lighter, younger tenor, none of them wanting to risk that their spell would falter. Gasps, shouts and stunned silence followed them into the castle and through the halls, as those near enough recognized the still form they were levitating. But no one dared cross Mr. Weasley's crazed Protego as they maneuvered the man up the stairs to what remained of the fourth floor and into the infirmary. Once they lowered the man to a bed, Kingsley halted his murmuring to send off a silver Patronus, which shortly called forth Madam Pomfrey, bursting through the one door to the ward that was still on its hinges.

"What in the name of Merlin…" she began, stopping suddenly, her face contorting in totally uncharacteristic rage and hatred as she saw whom it was they had summoned her to attend. She rounded on the group, focusing her ire on McGonagall. "If you think, for _one minute_, I would expend a _second_ of my time tending that… that… _Death Eater_…" she shrieked. "There are people downstairs who _need_ me! _Heroes!_"

"Poppy…" "Madam Pomfrey…" McGonagall and Mr. Weasley said over each other.

"NO! I. Will. _NOT!_" Madam Pomfrey's voice ratcheted up a whole octave, her screeching rivaling the sound of Peeve's fingernails on a chalkboard.

Kingsley's deep bass protested, to no avail. Finally, "_POPPY!_" McGonagall shouted, raising her wand and flicking off a silencing spell. The ward echoed with Madam Pomfrey's angry words, fading into tense silence. Harry just stood at the head of the bed, next to Snape, wringing his hands, frantic that _something_ be done before the man bled to death, if he hadn't already done while the adults were arguing.

Poppy's insulted, stubborn resistance gave way to shocked disbelief, which thankfully dissolved into tight-lipped professionalism as Mr. Weasley, Kingsley and McGonagall stumbled over each other to tell her enough to overcome her refusal to help Snape. McGonagall's tear-filled eyes and Harry's anxious, pleading looks finally got through to her, and she ran her wand over the man, her innate healer's sympathy provoked at last by what her diagnostic spells revealed. The flame-red phoenix feather caught in a fold of his robe overcame her final resistance. She dispatched her silver Patronus to St. Mungo's, an urgent request for a top healer to attend her summoning an emergency team in mere minutes, while Harry anxiously shifted from foot to foot, his wide eyes swinging from Snape's face to Madam Pomfrey's to McGonagall's, searching for some reassurance, some indication of whether Snape would live or die.

He'd been bitten twenty seven times. Fifty-four punctures in matched pairs nicked organs and arteries, scraped shallowly across his face, severed tendons in his wrists and forearms – defensive wounds. Venom was still spreading throughout his body, attacking nerves, but he had lost so much blood, so quickly, that much of it had leaked out, pooling around each puncture and staining his robes an ugly yellow-green, before the damage became deadly. It must have been due to that, the healer said, that he was still alive. Else, Smethwyck explained, his heart would have stopped, or his brain shut down. But Harry's eyes caught on the flame-red feather on the bedside table. As it was, Snape was _barely_ alive, unconscious, unresponsive to the gentle Rennervate spell that was all that Madam Pomfrey dared try. The healer from St. Mungo's agreed it was better to leave him unconscious so they could filter venom from his blood before his movements could spread it further, and so that a purified Blood Replenishing Potion could be administered.

Snape fought them. His efforts to claw his way to consciousness required repeated doses of Draught of Dreamless Sleep, which seemed to lose effectiveness rapidly, due, no doubt, to the need to continuously filter poison from his system and repeatedly administer doses of Replenishing Potion, both of which diluted the sleeping potion they tilted down his throat, careful of the wounds on his neck and shoulders.

All the while, Harry stood anxiously at the head of the bed, moving out of the way as Madam Pomfrey bustled about, holding her wand over Snape's head, or moving it slowly down his body in repeated scanning spells, his heart pounding in his chest nearly as violently for Snape as it had when he had walked into the Forbidden Forest to face his own death. The cool burning knowledge – _I must die – _thathad sustained him then seemed to have deserted him. His hands were icy cold with his fear for Snape, shivers overtaking him without his awareness, his eyes on Snape's bloodless face, his hands patting the bed or reaching out to touch Snape's one uninjured shoulder, then pulling back out of fear of hurting him further.

Arthur Weasley stood frozen in place, Petrified it seemed, his head turned to Snape, his eyes lost in some other place, his face a tragic, frozen mask. McGonagall stood next to him, her hands clasped together whitely at her lips, her face alternating between flushed and pale, occasionally whispering, "Poppy…?" Kingsley stood silently on her other side, one arm around her, watching intently, thoughts whirling rapidly across his face, had anyone eyes for anything other than the wounded man.

The single remaining door to the infirmary slammed back against the stone wall, making a sound like the crack of someone apparating. Poppy whirled on her heel, her back to Snape, raising her wand in a defensive stance. Kingsley had already slashed the air, his non-verbal spell joining Arthur's shouted "Protego!" Just as quickly, Kingsley dropped his shield, as he saw Ron, Hermione and Neville burst through the doors, halting even before they hit the shield spells, staring at the group around Snape's bed. McGonagall put her hand on Arthur's wand arm, forcing it down, and he looked down, surprised, and dropped the spell he was not even aware of having cast.

"Is he…" Ron began.

"Harry…" Hermione and Neville cut across Ron.

"… alive?"

Mr. Weasley rushed to them and threw his arms around all three, pulling them into a fierce hug. His blue eyes liquid with tears, he nodded. "Barely."

"Harry," Ron called over his father's shoulder. "Use the Elder Wand!"

Harry met Ron's eyes with a stunned, wide-eyed look, and he shook his head slightly, urgently, from side to side as Hermione gripped Ron's arm. His arms scrabbled behind him as he stumbled back, a look of panic on his face, and when his back hit the wall behind Snape's bed, he stumbled again, then slid down, off balance, landing on one hip with a hard thump.

"Harry!" Ron rushed over. "You all right, mate?"

Bile rushed up into Harry's mouth, tasting of the sandwiches Kreacher had made him before he fell asleep, hours earlier. Sudden sweat poured out of every pore on his body. He raised a shaking hand to wipe his face and tried to push himself to a sitting position. Ron grabbed his arm, turning Harry to look at him.

"Where is it, Harry?" he demanded in a low voice, looking around as if the Elder Wand would appear out of thin air, or was hiding in plain sight.

Harry's heart beat a painful tattoo in his chest as he fought not to sick up all over the floor.

"Where is it?" Ron demanded again. "You can use it – heal him!"

Harry lowered his head to his trembling hands, shaking it side to side in denial. "No. Ron. No. I... I can't."

"'course you can! It's _your_ wand now! You can do it – I know you can!"

"I _can't_, Ron." He was going to be sick, he knew it. "Don't you see? If I use it now, for this…" Harry fought to find the words to express his terror, his certainty. "… I'll be tempted to use it for every problem I run into… every time a friend gets sick or something goes wrong… I'll be tempted… to change what's meant to be… to cheat death…"

"Yeah, but…"

"Ron…" Hermione whispered. "He's right… we can't."

Ron rounded on her. "Oh – so it's _we_ now? He's _innocent_, Hermione!" Ron forced through his teeth, throwing off the hand she had placed on his arm again, glaring at both of them. "He doesn't _deserve_ this. It's not _fair_! It's _not fair_! _It's not_…" and he choked off the rest of his sentence.

Harry gave a strangled cry and curled further in on himself. "I can't," he moaned, his voice strange in his ears. "I can't, Ron. It's not meant to be like that. If I use it, _it_ will use _me_… and I'll end up like _him_ in the end… like Voldemort."

"But you wouldn't, mate. You're better'n him!"

Harry looked up, his eyes red, haunted, uncertain. "N…no. No, I'm not, Ron. I'm human –just like the Peverells, just like Riddle." He was shaking violently, now. "The only way for me to do this is to _not use_ it – not for me, not for my friends, not even to save Sn… Snape," and, unbidden, unwanted images of the last thirty-six hours, the last four years, flashed through his mind.

_ Take… it… _Snape, bleeding out his life in the Shrieking Shack… _Cedric... Sirius... Dumbledore... Remus and Tonks... Colin Creevy… Dobby… Fred. _ A single, choked sob escaped him, and he collapsed into Ron and Hermione's arms, vainly trying to stifle the sound in some mistaken fear that Snape would hear and think him weak.

Stronger arms pulled him out of Ron's and held him. He looked up into Arthur Weasley's pale, tearful face. "I'm sorry. I'm so… sorr… sorry," he choked out in a whisper, holding onto the man.

Arthur tightened his arms around Harry, rocking him back and forth, whispering, "Shh… shh… It's all right, Harry. It's all right," through his own tears, falling onto Harry's dark head as he held him.

From across the room, McGonagall reached out a hand as if she could comfort them from where she stood, tears welling in her eyes. Pomfrey shook herself free of her frozen position, and turned back to Snape, her wand again tracking down his body from head to toe and back again. The healer from St. Mungo's recovered from his stunned silence and leaned in, murmuring to her as Ron, Hermione, and Mr. Weasley continued to hold onto Harry, and each other. Kingsley watched for a moment, deep-felt sympathy etched on his somber face, then quietly strode from the room, his brown and gold robes flaring behind him. Neville took up a position at parade rest, the only calm presence in the room, the Sword of Godric Gryffindor resting point down on the flagstone floor as he stood guard.

In the days that followed, when Snape's survival seemed uncertain, Harry sat at his side, a fierce internal debate repeating itself endlessly: _Should he use the Elder Wand to save Snape?_ Gods knew he deserved it. Was it cowardice that held him back? Was it selfish to withhold the healing he suspected the wand could affect? Was it a niggling revenge for years of the Slytherin professor's snide comments and abusive treatment? Was he making Snape suffer for Sirius and Dumbledore's deaths, despite knowing now that he was innocent?

When doubts threatened to overwhelm him, he would abandon his post at Snape's bedside and wander the grounds, pretending interest in the reconstruction or participating half-heartedly in conversation with his old Gryffindor friends, Luna, Ron's family, and Augusta Longbottom, who had stayed "to assist my grandson in his work to rebuild the School." Then, anxious that something would happen to the man in his absence, his fear would drive him back to Snape's side, to watch his chest rise and fall, assure himself the man was still alive, that there was still hope, before his doubts drove his restless feet back out of the castle once more.

Though at first he allowed himself to fall asleep in his old four-poster in Gryffindor Tower, under Seamus, Dean and Neville's watchful eyes, Harry's constant worry for Snape invaded his dreams, when he wasn't reliving the confrontation in the Forbidden Forest, waking to feel Narcissa Malfoy's nails biting into his chest, or falling once more into and out of the Pensieve and Snape's memories.

Whenever he woke, he threw his invisibility cloak over himself, pulled out the Marauder's Map, and picked his way through the ruined castle, skirting fallen pediments and evading patrolling professors to make his way to the infirmary, where, after assuring himself that Snape was still breathing, he would curl up on the transfigured chair, one hand touching Snape's or holding onto a bit of the blanket covering the man. He was awakened most mornings by McGonagall's gentle tap, the murmurs of Madam Pomfrey consulting with the visiting healer, or Kreacher bringing him porridge. They let him be without comment, though McGonagall looked at him worriedly, her eyes moist with sympathy, when he refused to leave Snape for breakfast in the Great Hall.

He had told Dumbledore – or his portrait, at least – that he would return the wand to… where it had come from. But saying and doing were two different things, not least because he was unsure how, exactly, to accomplish this, with so many people on the grounds, and his doubts and worry for Snape held him back. But it worried him, terrified him, in fact, to have the wand loose. Only he, Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore knew the wand he had won – from Draco Malfoy, not Voldemort – was the Elder Wand… and he _must _keep it that way, _must _put an end to the trail of death that followed after. The thought of carrying it made him nauseous, too aware of the last fingers other than his own that had held it, terrified that in a moment of confusion or weakness he would give in.

Ron's anguished demand that he heal Snape, the unspoken implication that somehow, _somehow_, Harry could use the wand to call back Fred from the dead… maybe bring back Tonks, Lupin… ate away at his heart, his nerve, his stomach, so that his pacing, when he left Snape's side, took him to Gryffindor Tower, where he unlocked the trunk at the end of his bed and stared at the wand lying on the bottom, underneath a hastily tossed towel, trembling, until he slammed shut the lid and locked it with a shaky wave of the holly and phoenix feather wand, and raced back to Snape to count his breaths, holding his own when Snape thrashed and moaned in whatever nightmares tore the cries of terror and despair from his lips.

Ron's murmured, "Sorry, mate…" and Hermione's repeated reassurances that he was doing the right thing did little to quiet the panicked questions in his heart and mind every time Madam Pomfrey raced to Snape's side in response to some spell she had set to alert her if his condition worsened. Then Harry would back against the wall, his hands clenched around his wand so tightly his nails drew bloody crescents in his palms, praying that Snape's chest would rise and fall and rise again, _questioning… questioning… The Elder Wand…? _Each time Snape recovered, he cursed himself and clung to Snape's bedside as if his life, too, hung in the balance. He counted the puncture wounds the healer uncovered daily to apply drawing salve and Madam Pomfrey doused with Murtlap and Dittany. He stared in sick fascination at the ruined flesh of Snape's left arm, the Dark Mark no longer visible. He listened, barely comprehending, when Pomfrey, McGonagall and Smethwyck confirmed reattachment of tendons, knitting of sinew and muscle…

Snape was emaciated despite the constant infusions of nutritional fluids, and Harry did not know if his gauntness had begun this year or was a result of his injuries – or if Snape had always been this thin, hidden under his voluminous robes. He was unaware that he looked nearly as bad as Snape, unaware of McGonagall and Mr. Weasley and Madam Pomfrey's worried looks and whispered conversations. They worked to save Snape nearly as much for Harry as for the man himself.

He was called to testify before a hastily assembled subcommittee of the Wizengamot, his refusal to leave Snape's side to make the trip to London barely appeased by Kingsley, as Acting Minister of Magic, arranging for a direct Floo Network connection between the ward and his office at the Ministry, and Mr. Weasley's insistence on accompanying him, as he had once before. Harry fretted throughout the hearing, finally refusing to continue after three hours of grilling, interrupted from time to time by Kingsley's demands that questioning be both brief and gentle, and Mr. Weasley's protests against asking Harry to relate more than necessary to establish both that Voldemort was indeed dead and that Snape had been working for the Dark Lord's overthrow for the past eighteen years or more, both men striving to protect Snape's privacy, as well as Harry's. Harry fled back to the castle and Snape's side, where he calmed himself by counting each rise and fall of Snape's chest, after checking that the Elder Wand was secure.

* * *

_Chapter 2 of 30. To be continued..._


	4. Awakening

**Disclaimer:** Not my people. Not my universe. Those belong to our beloved J.K. Rowling. The plot is mine, though, and I love it dearly. Hope you do as well. Feedback is craved, relished, chewed thoughtfully and digested completely. Review here or find me on Facebook or .uk as Carol Oster. No galleons accrued to my bank account as a result of this story. No dragons were harmed in its crafting.

* * *

CHAPTER THREE

AWAKENING

After an eternity, Snape found himself well and truly… _awake? _his eyes opening to mere slits after minutes or hours of effort. It was dark. _Still night? The same night?_ A dark blur resolved itself into a Someone who sat next to him. He was too weak to cry out in fear – the Dark Lord returned, he supposed, to be sure his servant was well and truly dead, or to taunt him with his victory over the boy. He braced himself, accepting that his work was not done, that his punishment was not yet over, and worked his way up – torso, chest, shoulders, neck, chin, lips – moving, though he could not make out the words – and finally eyes. Impossibly green eyes, framed by a black, mussed tangle of hair, a stark red scar barely visible beneath the fringe. The boy, illuminated in the glow from his wand tip, was watching him so intently he felt burned anew, but he could not turn away. _Not. Possible._

But he devoured the boy with his eyes. Delusion or no, he wanted this. He needed this. _He's alive. He's safe… safe… safe. Potter…_

"Is it…" His voice was hoarse, papery thin, barely audible even to his own ears.

"It's over. Riddle's dead," the boy murmured in the darkness.

"How long?"

"Four days."

He tried to sit up, but the boy pushed him back on the pillows, and he was shocked to find he could not – did not want to – resist, Potter's face so close to his, determined. He could not turn away, could not keep from watching the boy. He was _safe… safe… safe…_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his rasping voice nearly undone by the tears constricting his throat.

The boy looked at him, startled. "You saved me," the boy said. His eyebrows drew down in a frown of puzzlement – or wonderment. "You spent half your life saving me. You nearly _died_ to save me. What do you have to be sorry for?"

"Lily… James… Black… Dumbledore…" the litany of those he could not save rose like a black cloud to overwhelm him, and sobs shook him.

"It's all right, Professor… It's all right… Go back to sleep," Potter whispered, and brushed the dank hair away from his brow with a gentle hand, something the man did not understand, a puzzled frown relaxing from his face as he fell back into sleep.

His fear drove him to the surface time and again. He fought his way awake, for what must have been the fourteenth or fifteenth – or fortieth or fiftieth – time. _I must get to the boy. I must save him. _The boy was always there – reading silently, curled up asleep on a chair at his bedside, murmuring to unseen others. But no matter – he had eyes only for the boy. _Alive. Safe._

Potter slept curled on a chair next to him, one knee near enough to touch. Snape reached out a hand – _Is that my hand? – _to assure himself that the boy was real. Warm flesh met his touch, and holding onto that truth, he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

And then, sun flooded the room, warming him where he lay, and he came to, gradually alert, aware that he was… alive, awake, hungry… and needed to go to the bathroom. The boy was gone, and he nearly panicked, thinking it all a dream, a delusion, and struggled to sit up, shocked to find himself too weak to manage even that.

"Severus!"

Poppy strode over to him, relief and concern warring with each other on her face. He flinched at her touch, fearing what he would see in her eyes – what he had seen in everyone's eyes this past year: hatred, condemnation, judgment – no more than he deserved. But tears flooded her eyes, and she patted him gently on the cheek. "It's so good to see you awake, Professor. I'll go get Potter."

"No!" He suddenly panicked for a different reason. He did not _want_ to see Potter, did not want to face _that _condemnation.

"He'll want to know, Professor. He's just gone to lunch. I promised I would let him know if you woke up."

"No – I… I… have to use the loo," he stammered, his heart beating fierce protest against facing Potter awake, though some part of him remembered the boy at his bedside. He frowned in confusion, trying to make sense of it. _He must hate me._

Madam Pomfrey shook her head then patted him again. "I'll just get the bed pan." He was nearly too weak for embarrassment – nearly. The healer helped him perform a bodily function he'd independently managed since his Muggle father shamed him at two, and he had _nearly_ enough energy to feel that shame anew. But once they were done, he fell back against his pillows, trembling from the effort, raising a shaking hand to wipe sweat from his upper lip, then lowering it weakly to the blanket she pulled up and tucked around him.

"How long?" he rasped out.

She pretended not to hear him, busying herself folding clean cloths into the bedside table with a wave of her wand.

"How long?" he insisted, raising a hand in her direction. "Poppy…"

She gave him a disapproving sniff, then relented, her eyes kind as they met his, confusing him. _She should hate me. Why doesn't she hate me?_

He missed her answer.

"Pardon?"

She thought him stunned and patted his hand. "Today is June first, Severus. You've been sleeping a long time. If it weren't for Fawkes… and Potter… I don't know that we could have saved you."

"Potter?" _Fawkes. He remembered Fawkes… and burning. _His shiver turned into overt shaking, then to dry heaves, his body curling around the cramping in his stomach, the fear constricting his throat. "Potter… oh Merlin, Potter! I killed him… Oh gods, I'm sorry..."

"What? Professor? _Severus!_ Stop! _Stop_ this – you didn't... He's alive. Potter's alive, Severus, he'll be right back. There, there – it's all right, it's all right." Poppy's voice shifted from frantic concern to soft reassurance.

"Professor? Madam Pomfrey! What's happened? What's wrong?"

Snape was too far into his waking nightmare now. The familiar voice, rather than reassuring him, only fed his fears. "Potter… oh my God… Potter…"

"What is it, Professor?" Small hands took him by the shoulders, tried to straighten him from around his cramped stomach and the fear clenching his chest. "It's all right, Professor. It's all right. It's over… he's gone…" Madam Pomfrey hissed disapproval in the background.

"No!" the distraught man choked, sobbing, and then darkness overtook him, and he was dragged, clawing, down into a nightmare where Voldemort stood over the boy, his cruelly laughing mouth morphing into the vilely articulating jaws of the great hissing snake, striking down at the boy as he, himself, ordered _Dinner, Nagini_, while the boy sought to reassure him that _It's all right, Professor. It's all right..._

Snape moved restlessly, bothered by the quiet, his pulse speeding up as the lack of… _context… _threatened to drag him down into another nightmare. He resisted.

The voices of students talking quietly, sometimes laughing softly, had nearly brought him awake earlier… the same day, he thought, though he vaguely remembered too many of those for it to have been one event. He had recognized some of the voices, more recent in his memory: Seamus Finnigan, Neville Longbottom – apparently back at school despite the Carrows… _Fool boy! _then the more distantly recalled voice of the youngest Weasley boy… and his brother Bill… Hermione Granger's lighter laugh and sharper, knowing tone… _Something was strange here… _Luna Lovegood's softer, more musical voice… _When had she…? _And Potter's.

Each time the young wizards' voices joined in conversation or laughter, he fell back asleep, his lips twitching, dreaming of Potions lessons… Longbottom and Finnigan's cauldron exploding, sending bubotuber pus flying at their classmates – repeatedly; Granger's insufferable efforts to prove herself worthy of the name "witch", ignorantly feeling inferior due to her Muggle origins; Bill's irrepressible laughter at the sticky mess in a classmate's vial; the Lovegood girl's ludicrous claims about her father's ridiculous brews…

And Potter – Snape vanishing a perfectly good potion from his cauldron, taking satisfaction at the look of helpless fury on the boy's face; catching the boy outside his store cupboard, denying his theft of Polyjuice potion ingredients; the boy ducking behind Weasley's cauldron, their heads together, no doubt plotting some midnight foray through the castle… _Risky. _Slughorn's ridiculous claim that the boy was a potions genius, just like his mother… _Lily… oh Merlin, Lily… _Her eyes faded into the brilliant green eyes of a dark haired boy with a lightning scar under his fringe, twinkling in mischief or delight, not knowing or caring that the dark-haired man watched from afar…

The boy was rubbing his scar as he read, one finger repeatedly tracking its jagged outline down, then up to where it met his hairline. Snape watched, hypnotized, gradually coming awake.

"Potter," he whispered.

The boy looked at him, green eyes taking a moment to refocus.

"Potter," Snape repeated, more strongly, though rasping.

"Professor… do you need anything?" The boy sat up.

Snape tried to unstick his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. He had no saliva with which to wet his lips or swallow. "Water," he mouthed soundlessly, wondering why that made the boy blanch and freeze.

The boy shook himself, stood and placed his book on the chair he'd been occupying. Snape's eyes followed him as he poured water from a stoneware pitcher from somewhere behind Snape's head. He set the cup of water tantalizingly out of reach, and Snape glared at him blackly, making to raise his hand. The boy clucked at him – _clucked at him!_

"Hold on, Professor. Let me help you sit up."

"I'm perfectly capable…" he croaked, but Potter had already waved his wand to raise the head of the bed to a better angle for drinking, the increasing pressure on Snape's buttocks uncomfortable and unfamiliar, as if he were sitting on rocks rather than in a bed. The boy held the cup of water to his lips. Snape glared at him over the cup's rim, but the boy held his ground. He sipped – once, twice, then the boy pulled the cup away, despite his half-sounded protest. _He'll pay for that… _he promised himself.

He raised a hand to draw the cup back toward him, but his movement was arrested when his gaze met the skeletal thing attached to the end of his arm. He held it up, studying it as if it were some particularly noxious result of one of Hagrid's breeding experiments, or Potter's Potions homework. Twin tracks of nearly-healed puncture wounds led from the base of the fingers across the wrist, down under the black cotton pajamas he suddenly realized he was wearing. He recognized the tell-tale stain of essence of dittany. When he saw the boy watching him, he pressed his lips closed, swallowed, and dropped his hand.

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"The date, Potter, the date," he rasped in an attempt at his usual nasal sneer. It came out peevish. _He hated that._

"June 6th, Professor," Harry said, maintaining eye contact. Snape broke it off before the boy did. _Damn him._

He performed a swift calculation. "Five weeks."

The boy said nothing.

"What's… what's happening?" he asked finally, hating that it was Potter he was asking. _Where is everyone? _His mind shied away from that.

The boy sighed and scrubbed at his face with both hands. He looked… washed out. _But he's alive._

"What do you remember, Professor?"

Snape watched the boy place the book he had been reading on the stack at the back of the nightstand, not meeting Snape's gaze now. "That your pronunciation leaves much to be desired," Snape managed dryly. The boy's mouth twitched, but he controlled it.

"Yeah – well… it's been a while since I sat in a Potions class… I'm rusty."

"… Obviously," he drawled out slowly. _That was more like it. He sounded himself._

The boy turned away, but not before Snape caught the flash of a smirk on his face – _Back to normal, are we? _– thenturned back, having mastered himself.

"Can I get you something? Are you hungry?"

Snape looked at him, aware that his face had gone blank and still, his mind a whirl of confusion, trying to piece it together… trying to remember…

"Professor?"

"What are you doing here?"

"What…?"

"Why are you here, Potter, staring at me like I'm one of Luna Lovegood's crumple-horned snorkacks?"

"Uh…"

"Eloquent as always, aren't we, Potter?"

Potter shook his head; a surge of emotion washed across his face and he clearly fought down a flash of anger. Snape felt a curl at his lip. _Ah – there we are, Potter. Back to normal. _But the boy merely inhaled and repeated, "Can I get you something? Are…"

Before he could finish, the doors to the ward opened, and Minerva McGonagall strode briskly in, her robe billowing behind her, levitating a tray with what was evidently the boy's lunch on it. When she saw Snape sitting up – albeit leaning palely against his pillows, his sunken black eyes turned toward the sound of her entry – her concentration faltered, and the tray crashed to the ground.

"Severus!" she cried in a cracked, shrill exclamation, not at all like her usual dry tones… _not at all like the hate that dripped from her voice when she was forced to address him lately. _She stepped toward them, one foot slipping on a sandwich, and would have taken a nasty spill had the boy not whipped out his wand, twirled it expertly and produced a cushioning charm. Snape's left eyebrow shot up in appreciation, which he quickly quelled.

"Professor!" Potter raced to help McGonagall up, and with a wave of his wand – _nonverbal_, Snape categorized – reconstructed the tray and lofted it to a spare bedside table.

"Thank you, Potter," McGonagall said, giving the boy's cheek a pat. Something twisted inside of Snape as he watched that interaction, and he made a sound of disgust, which both Potter and Minerva ignored.

"Severus…" McGonagall reached him and raised her hand. He… _flinched_. Their last interaction had resulting in him fleeing the castle, her "COWARD!" shrieked at his back, penetrating with a pain as deadly as Bellatrix's icy athame.

The woman… patted his shoulder, his arm, and went to lay her hand on his head, caught herself at his look of horror, and laid the back of her hand against his forehead.

"Well," she said hoarsely, "there's no fever. That's… that's good." She tried for her usual businesslike manner. Snape's insides were a confused babble of something like fear, swiftly passing through confusion, rejection, annoyance, and finally embarrassment as he saw Potter looking on, apparently torn between amusement and sympathy. Finally, he managed to settle his face on something like his familiar, cool haughtiness, and he regarded the Deputy Headmistress as if he could look down his considerable nose at her. "Minerva…" he growled, but something in him warmed at the way she looked at him… _looked _at him… He hadn't been _looked at – _hadn'tmet Minerva's eyes – in over a year. He fought against a sudden wetness in his eyes, scowled, and settled for glaring at Potter.

McGonagall continued to pat his arm, seemingly without awareness. Snape did not pull away, too exhausted, too weak… and unwilling, he realized.

"Potter…" McGonagall turned toward the boy.

"I… I'll just go eat in the Great Hall, Professor," he said, raising his wand to levitate the tray of flattened food toward the doors.

McGonagall looked at the boy appraisingly, her nostrils flaring slightly. She sniffed. "See that you do, Potter. Oh – and tell Poppy the Headmaster is awake, will you?" She paused. "You may return, Potter – _AFTER you nap… in your BED._ Do you understand me, Mr. Potter?"

"There's no need…" Snape began.

"Hush," McGonagall said, patting him again as if he were a child she was soothing.

Snape caught Potter's look – a tired but insolent grin – as he started out of the room.

"And Potter – let's just keep this quiet, for the moment, shall we? We don't need people galloping up here like a herd of headless hippogriffs." The boy waved a hand in acknowledgement and, still smiling, headed out the door, leaving Snape alone with the hawk-faced, tartan-robed woman, some twenty-plus years his senior, her _"Coward!"_ echoing over and over in his memory. He swallowed and straightened his thin shoulders as best he could in his condition, and turned to face her. _I'd have preferred the boy._

Snape rested, his eyes closed, his thoughts drifting rather aimlessly, an unwanted effect of the sleeping potion Poppy had tried to dose him with before his educated nose had detected the tell-tale ingredients of lavender and valerian, one sip into the pumpkin juice with which she had attempted to disguise it. _He should have caught it earlier. _ He had handed it back to her.

"_Plain _pumpkin juice, Poppy. Please."

She had opened her mouth to argue, clearly believing that his interview with Minerva had exhausted him, and he had attempted to intimidate her with a glare. _He used to be able to get people to cooperate… _She had pursed her lips in an attempt not to smile – _cheeky woman_ – and Banished the tainted juice, substituting a cold, fresh – "and unmedicated, I promise" – glass, from which, it having passed the sniff test, he cautiously sipped, rolling the juice around on his tongue, testing for the subtle tell-tale aftertastes of more devious concoctions. Poppy had sniffed in mock outrage, patted his hand, which he resisted pulling away, and, nose in the air, headed to her office. If he turned his head, he could see her working, a Quick Quotes Quill recording her notes.

The door to the ward opened and light steps drew closer. He slit open his eyes, long lashes shading the black glitter, and stifled a sigh. _Potter._ The boy raised a hand, apparently in acknowledgement of a sign from Poppy – her door closed softly a moment later, leaving the two of them alone – and took up his place in the chair on Snape's left, reaching first to retrieve the book whose Latinate he had been butchering that morning. Snape let his eyes drift completely shut, not fully taking notice that the tension he'd felt since Potter left the ward earlier had just drained away. Perhaps he _would_ sleep.

* * *

_Chapter 3 of 30. To be continued..._


	5. Body Count

Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not my universe. Those belong to our beloved J.K. Rowling. The plot is my own, however, and I love it dearly, as I hope you will.

I crave feedback. I beg you... implore you... This is the only form of payment I receive, as any galleons that appear in my bank account have the permanence of Leprechaun gold, and are worth even less. Feed me! Nourish my soul and my muse, I beg you...

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CHAPTER FOUR

BODY COUNT

Harry studied the Potion professor's – _Headmaster's, _he reminded himself – face. He was less pale than he had been this morning, though the bones of his face still jutted out shockingly, emphasizing the sharp angularity of his profile, usually much less evident despite his hook nose. His eyes were sunken, darker, more fathomless, more foreboding – _more haunted – _than Harry was used to seeing them. _Or maybe I just didn't notice, _he admitted. Snape's eyes moved restlessly beneath their lids, and – not for the first time – Harry wondered what nightmarish events the man was re-experiencing. He shuddered and drew his robe tighter about himself, finally sinking into the chair and pulling the potions book to his lap again.

An hour or so later, deep in deciphering the recipe for a stress-reducing, calming decoction, he struggled to pronounce a word that was giving him trouble: Ashwagandha.

"_Aash_… wah… _GAHN_… dah," Snape muttered, his eyes still closed. "It's _wah_, Potter, not _woh. _And the major accent is on the third syllable. If you insist onslaughtering the language, I'll thank you to leave my books in my study." He opened his eyes, expecting the boy to be looking at him.

"Sorry, sir," the boy replied, but he neither closed the book nor looked up, his quill scratching on a piece of parchment on which Snape could see what looked suspiciously like lists of potion ingredients. He shifted restlessly against his pillow.

"Can I get you something, Professor?"

"I am not your Professor, Potter, as you deemed it unnecessary to attend school this year."

Potter paused his scratching to look up at him incredulously. "You're joking."

He did not see fit to reply. Indeed, he was not sure exactly what reply he _could_ have given. _Of course he did not attend this year! _Snape's heart faltered at the very thought of what would have happened if Potter _had _shown up, had been at Platform 9 ¾ in London on September first. He chose to answer the boy's first question.

"No, Potter. I'm fine. I just need…" He hesitated.

"Sir?"

Cursing fluidly to himself, Snape weighed the relative indignity of allowing Poppy to help him with a bedpan and requiring Potter's help to get to the bathroom. He opted for the latter. "I shall require assistance to make it to the…"

"Oh!" Potter's eyes widened in sudden comprehension, and he closed the book with a snap, face reddening, and pulled out his wand. "Ah…" He looked toward Pomfrey's closed door uncertainly.

"I can _walk_, Potter," Snape growled, then stopped when Harry conjured a pair of soft, lamb's wool slippers and moved to help him sit up.

"Slowly, Professor."

Snape growled again, something inaudible. "My wand," he enunciated more clearly into the back of Potter's head as the boy bent to place the slippers on his feet. The boy straightened up and motioned to the bedside table. Snape snatched up the long piece of carved ebony and glared at the boy as if he thought that dignity, too, would be denied him. Potter wisely kept his own counsel, shifting to take some of the professor's weight, ready to catch him if he wavered. Snape did not miss the circular motion of the boy's wand behind him, nor the light support of the boy's hand at his back, but he was too engrossed in conquering the sudden urge to spew pumpkin juice all over himself and the warm slippers on his feet to protest as he fought to get his balance and stay upright.

Several shaky and exhausting minutes later, Potter helped Snape back to bed, uttering a mild levitating charm to assist him in getting his legs onto the covers. Snape wondered if he looked as pale as he felt. He was sweaty, and he was shaking – either from the effort or with cold, or both. He cursed weakly as he lay back against the pillows. Potter murmured, "Excuse me, Professor," as he pulled the blanket out from under Snape's emaciated calves then up around his torso, assuring no draft could find its way under the coverlet. The boy took a dry cloth from the drawer in the bedside table, warmed it with a quiet murmur, and began dabbing the sweat from Snape's forehead. Snape's face twitched, but he did not have the energy to overtly complain or move away. Potter ignored the implied protest and doggedly continued until he had dried Snape's face and neck, right down to the collar of his pajamas. He touched his wand to a corner of Snape's sleeve, invoking a nonverbal _Tergio,_ to siphon off the sweat that soaked the pajamas, followed by a silent warming spell on the blanket. Snape's shivering slowly subsided, his breathing became more regular, and he gradually fell into an exhausted but peaceful sleep.

He came half awake during the night. Potter lay curled on the chair, pulled close to the side of the bed, a blanket over him, his head pillowed on one arm. His left hand was lying in the curve of Snape's left hand, at the edge of the bed. Snape's eyes slowly shut and he drifted back to sleep. _Safe_.

When he woke, the boy was not there; someone else was sitting in the chair at his bedside.

"Arthur," he murmured. "Where's Potter?" then pressed his lips together in annoyance.

Arthur Weasley looked up from the parchment in his hands with a wan smile as Snape said his name. "Severus," he said, and stood to grip the man's shoulder, his eyes turning liquid as he did so, easing up when Snape drew in a hissing breath. "How are you?"

"Improving – which is to say at least I am awake today."

"I've sent Harry off to breakfast in the Hall. It's been hard to get him off this chair these past weeks." Snape made a face and Arthur chuckled, but there was a forced edge to it, although his eyes reflected honest warmth and concern.

Snape waited, his shoulders and stomach contracting tensely as Arthur continued to simply stand there, as if on the brink of … _something_. Finally, when it seemed this would continue indefinitely if he did not break the silence, Snape yielded.

"What is it?"

Arthur hesitated a moment longer, then, taking a breath and patting Snape's shoulder – _Why does every person __insist__ on patting me? _Snape thought irritably. – he cleared his throat. "Harry… that is to say… Molly and I… and the children… want to thank you… for … for what you did for Harry, all these years…"

"I did nothing," Snape objected, alarmed at where this was going.

Arthur smiled – _something was wrong there _– and disregarded his protest. "I… I _know_ what you did for him, Severus." He rubbed his hands on his face.

_ He's tired,_ Snape thought. _Well… why shouldn't he be tired? There'd be much to do at the Ministry, after all. No doubt he was putting in long hours at work._

"I have no idea what you are talking about." The habit of dissimilation, as well as his innate reticence, spoke for him.

Arthur hesitated. "Harry… Harry shared what was in Dumbledore's Pensieve…" Snape's eyebrows rose in alarm and his face went still, his eyes darkening. "… with McGonagall, Kingsley and myself…"

Snape swallowed. "What… exactly…"

"You don't remember."

Snape shook his head – not in agreement, but in denial, because… he _did_ remember. He remembered _precisely_, in agonizing, horrific detail: terror and loss and his hopeless sense of failure… his shock at Potter's appearance above him… his desperation that the boy understand… his fear that he had nothing to give him that would help him, keep him safe, save Lily's son from the fate that had only become inevitable because of his, Snape's, perfidy… which had set the boy on a course of annihilation that, once begun, Snape had tried, but failed, to derail. He gave him all that he had left – the truth – so that, hope against impossible hope, he might, just _might,_ find something, some clue, _something_ to use as a weapon, something that Snape himself had overlooked, was blind to, that would help. Not to defeat the Dark Lord – that was Dumbledore's aim, not Snape's – but to save himself, to survive, the Dark Lord's downfall a side effect, not the goal – not _Snape's_ goal, in any case. No, he just wanted the boy – at all costs, the boy – to be _safe… safe… safe…_

Blood leached from his face, and he felt himself sink into the pillow, overwhelmed at the memory of what he thought he had lost. "Potter…" he said, grabbing at Arthur's arm. "… is he…?" He swallowed convulsively.

Arthur paled as well, agitating Snape further. "No… he's all right, Severus. He's all _right_. He just went down to the Great Hall. _He's all right_," he repeated more firmly, his eyes wide with concern, reaching to calm the man, press him back into bed, settle him down.

Poppy, hearing the change in Mr. Weasley's voice, hurried out of her office toward them. Seeing Snape's pallor and agitation, and the haunted look in his eyes, she turned to Arthur angrily.

"_What did you say to him?_" she demanded. "The man is _weak_, Arthur Weasley! He's in no shape to deal with bad news! _What_ were you _thinking_?" Her cheeks flushed with anger as she grabbed a bottle of Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Despite Snape's weak attempt to fend her off, she managed to get a spoonful into him, and stood watching, a stern look on her face, until it took effect, pulling him down into sleep once more. Then she rounded on Mr. Weasley.

"_What_ do you think you were _doing_, upsetting him like that? Do you have _any idea_ what this man has _been_ through? He's _weak_, Arthur Weasley, _WEAK_. I'll not have any of you in here upsetting him like this, do you hear me? Now _out_… _OUT_ with you, or I'll have McGonagall set repelling charms around the entire ward – don't you think that I won't!"

All the while, she shooed Arthur toward the door angrily, heedless of his protests that "I didn't _say_ anything – honest, Poppy!"

And Snape was drowning again. A body, trussed up like a turkey, hung suspended over a black table, spinning slowly toward him… Charity Burbage… no – Arthur Weasley… no – Minerva McGonagall… no – Hermione Granger… hanging head down, bushy brown hair brushing against his bare arms, tears falling from her eyes, pleading with him in a choked whisper, "_Severus_… _please_… Professor, please… please… please won't you wake up?"… and a long, thin, white hand was reaching for him, blood-encrusted fingernails scraping lightly against his face as they reached to tear off his mask, to expose him… to expose his pounding heart and the tears he was shedding because he could not save her.

He came to with a start. Hermione Granger's face was mere inches from his, her hair falling into his face. His suddenly-opened eyes startled her and she bit back a yelp of surprise. "Professor! I didn't mean to…"

He waved a hand to stop her babbling. "Miss Granger," he began, through clenched teeth.

"Yes, sir?"

"Back. Up."

"Oh – sorry, sir!"

He sighed on a weak breath, though stronger, he thought, than earlier. "What is it you want, Miss Granger? Please don't tell me you are here on guard duty or to feed me or some other such rubbish. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." As he spoke, his eyes searched the ward, missing her amused, skeptical look. _Where was the boy? Twilight. He had slept the afternoon. Arthur. That's what he recalled from earlier. Arthur… and he had seen what was in the Pensieve._ His eyes swung suddenly back to the Granger girl, narrowed in suspicion.

"No, Professor. Of course not. I mean… of course you can take care of yourself." _She was __patting__ him! _He gritted his teeth and managed to say, reasonably calmly, "Miss Granger… please stop…" She let out a tiny, "Eep!" and withdrew her hands hastily, placing them behind her back. "Thank you," he said dryly.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's just… you were having a nightmare, and…"

_ Nightmare?_ Of course he was having a nightmare. His whole damned _life_ was a nightmare. What else would he be dreaming of – fluffy, blast-ended skrewts?

"… Thank you, Miss Granger. I'm quite fine… Was there something else?"

"N… no, Professor," she stammered, turning red. Then she took a breath, and squared her shoulders in a look he suddenly remembered from a classroom confrontation when she was determined to respond to a question despite his drawling disparagements. His lips quirked in recognition. Did the girl _never _give up? What was it _this_ time?

"Speak what is on your mind, Miss Granger, before I die of the suspense."

Her eyes flashed and the corners of her mouth turned up in the start of a nervous smile. "It's just… it's good to see you, sir. I just came down to see how you were doing, and…" She hesitated and then sped on, "… and to tell you that we're all – Harry, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Seamus… all of us… we're glad you're doing so well… and… and… we miss you, sir," and to his horror, tears sprang to the blasted girl's eyes and began to leak down her face.

He swallowed a retort and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Miss Granger."

He was spared the necessity of saying – or hearing – more by the arrival of his third visitor of the day – _Was__ it the same day? _– McGonagall. She took one look at Hermione and sniffed – in disapproval, thank Merlin. "Miss Granger," she said, "…perhaps you would like to take your dinner early?"

"Oh, no, Professor. I'm perfectly… Oh. Oh – I'm sorry. Yes. Yes, that would be good. I'll do that," she stammered. Then, flashing him a tearful smile and wiggling her fingers – _That insolent little… – _she grabbed up her inevitable stack of books and left him, thankfully, alone with Minerva.

McGonagall settled herself in the chair next to him – _without_ patting him, he noted gratefully – and drew her robe about her in a businesslike manner. That was interesting. It looked as though he would finally have a conversation that did not involve someone breaking down in tears. Though, now that he thought about it, _Potter_ had not shown any distressing tendency to break out in excessive waterworks around him. The thought, for some reason, was… unsettling.

"Minerva," he said, with a fair imitation of his typical nod.

"Severus, how are you? Never mind – I can see perfectly well how you are."

He raised an eyebrow. She scowled at him then spoiled it by patting his hand. _Damn_.

She gave a short, low laugh at his look, and squeezed his hand. Then she pulled from her robes a turkey-feather quill, a bottle of her distinctive green dragons' blood ink, and two pieces of parchment – one with a map of the castle, and one with what looked like a long list – and began to discuss the castle's reconstruction and protections. They talked for perhaps forty-five minutes. Somewhere along the way, he found the strength to sit up.

She asked his advice on a number of matters, including whether to block the "secret passages" into and out of the school (_No. Just set alarms_.), whether they had used all the appropriate protective spells on the perimeter (_Yes, as far as he could tell, but ask Dumbledore and Dippet, to be sure_.), and how to manage the students of Slytherin who wanted back into the castle to retrieve their things before the summer (_Have Filch scan them with Probity Probes before allowing them on castle grounds; see to it that they were not harassed by students of the other three houses – or anyone else; have Professor Slughorn, their Head of House, oversee them in the common areas of the castle_.).

_ Slytherin…_ "Minerva…"

"Hmm?" She made a check mark by one item on a piece of parchment and peered at the next.

He waited until she looked up. "Draco Malfoy…" He held his breath.

Her absent frown turned into a half smile, and he exhaled. _Alive, then._ She lifted her chin. "I am pleased to say he seems to be figuring out where his loyalty lies," she said with a sniff.

He raised an eyebrow and waited, arms crossed over his chest.

"Yes. The young man has taken personal responsibility for coordinating the clean-up of the Great Hall… and helps oversee the first years when there is nothing else to keep him busy. The change in him is quite… startling." She smiled.

"Indeed." He was pleased. "And… Lucius?" His stomach twisted at the thought of the man.

McGonagall's smile turned icy. "Lucius is, shall we say, _otherwise occupied_." She sighed at the not-so-subtle demand for details in his expression. "He and Narcissa are wandless." He nodded. "It is possible they will remain so for the foreseeable future." He winced, but… _a reasonable precaution_. "Further, Malfoy Manor has been sealed while an investigation is carried out." He nodded again – _necessary._

"Have them check the cellars… and Minerva – there are cellars _beneath _the cellars." She nodded and scratched a note in the margin of her parchment.

"And… Bellatrix?" His voice was ice, but he nearly vomited at the thought of the woman – her insane cackle, her blood lust, the pleasure she took in the most grotesque, inhuman torture… Miss Granger came to mind, and he suddenly realized she had had a thin, red line down her neck on the right side – no doubt a souvenir from the episode at Malfoy Manor – _how long ago, now?_ – which he had heard of from Dolohov.

McGonagall's flint-hard voice rang in satisfaction. "Dead." She smiled with a deadly fire in her eyes. "_Never_ cross Molly Weasley!"

_ Molly?_ A satisfied gleam showed in his narrowed eyes, and he nodded. "_Indeed_… Fenrir Greyback?"

"Dead."

"Rudolfus Lestrange?"

"Also dead."

"Antonin Dolohov?"

She sighed. "Severus – if you wish a body count of the Death Eaters, you are going to have to talk to Kingsley. I have quite enough to be getting on with here at the school."

_ Body count. _"Of course," he murmured. Then, "And… _our_ side?" he asked softly, his liquid baritone thick with fear… _but he had to know._

Minerva looked at him steadily, her eyes a contradiction of warm stone. "Fifty-four."

"Wounded?"

"Dead, Severus. I'm sorry."

_ Fifty-four. _His brain froze.

_ Fifty-four. _

_ Fifty-four? _

Something clicked into place. "The… the Weasley family?"

She hesitated. "Fred," she whispered.

"Oh, gods!" He leaned forward, his head falling nearly to his knees, trying not to be sick, and raised shaking hands to his forehead, his fingers gripping his hair. "Arthur… Arthur was… He said that Molly… and the children…" He was talking into the blanket covering his knees, he realized. He straightened with an effort. "Was it Bellatrix?" he asked hoarsely. _Damn her to seven kinds of hell!_

"No." McGonagall's voice shook. "Apparently, he and Percy were dueling Thickness and another Death Eater. They… they were caught in a blast from outside the castle –"

"Oh no," he moaned and shook his head in denial. _Percy as well, then._

"No, Severus! Just Fred. Just the one boy," Minerva said, though her voice was as hoarse as his.

"Then why… Molly… how…?"

She seemed to understand his question. "After… after Potter came out of the forest with Voldemort…"

_ What? _His brain froze a second time.

"… the fight moved into the castle, into the Great Hall. Somehow, Miss Granger, Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood ended up dueling that… that _bitch_ together." McGonagall spat out the word. "Miss Weasley just missed being killed by Bellatrix." A hard, satisfied tone entered McGonagall's voice. She sat ramrod straight, and her eyes turned steely cold. "And then Molly Weasley took over, and let me tell you, Severus…" Her voice rang loud and clear in the room. "_NEVER_ cross Molly Weasley!"

He nodded, but his mind was stuck. _What? _Potter… Voldemort… _What? _He could not make sense of it.

"Minerva… _what happened?_"

Sadness, pride, warmth and sympathy vied for ascendance on her face. "We won, Severus," she said, simply.

He grimaced. "Yes, of course…" He halted, started again. "It is evident that… I _understand_ that we won, Minerva. The question is _how_? How, in the name of Merlin and all the gods…? You said Potter… came out of the Forbidden Forest… _with Voldemort_?"

She looked at him steadily. "As for that, Severus, you'll have to ask Potter."

* * *

_Chapter 4 of 30. To be continued..._


	6. Ashwagandha Tea

**Disclaimer: **Still not my characters... still not my universe, though I am madly in love with them and wish they would claim me as their own. No galleons, sickles or knuts have enriched my coffers since I began this story, and no dragons were harmed in its creation. Feedback... please? Thank you very kindly.

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CHAPTER FIVE

ASHWAGANDHA TEA

She knew. He knew she knew. She knew he knew she knew. He fumed. He demanded. He all but _ordered_ her to tell him, but she held firm.

"It's not mine to tell, Severus. If you want to know, you'll have to ask Potter. I'm sorry. That's my final word." Then – _patting him again, drat the woman! – _she stood up and left. Just left him there. With _that._

He waited. He was having a hard time thinking, unable to make it make sense. _What? _He shook his head, trying to clear it, clear the confused whirl of thoughts. He waited some more.

_ Fred Weasley…_

He looked to his right, toward Poppy's office. She was chatting with Smethwyck. He drummed his fingers on his knees, put his head in his hands, and shook it again, narrowing his eyes.

_ Potter… Voldemort… What? _

He picked up his wand and _Accio'd_ his slippers. He banished them. He brought them back. He scowled, realizing he was behaving like some first year fool of a student with their first wand. _Maybe second year._ He picked up the potions book Potter had been reading. The boy had been using a bit of folded parchment for a bookmark. He opened it to see what had captured the boy's interest – _that morning_? _Yesterday? He couldn't think… _– andhis attention was caught by the once-familiar scrawl. Curious, he opened the parchment to read what the boy had written.

_Ashwagandha root tea decoction__ - reduce stress, enhance libido (what's that?) and calm nerves. Useful as a tonic for chronic inflammatory conditions. Acts as a mild sedative. Botanical name: somnifera. Best taken in evening._

_ 1 teaspoon powdered or chopped Ashwagandha root (Sn = crushed), 1/8 teaspoon Long Pepper (Sn = crushed)_  
_ Brew ten minutes in hot water. _

_Blood purifying potion__ -_

_2 parts burdock root and comfrey (Sn = 2/3 comfrey, 1/3 root)_  
_1 part wormwood_  
_1 part nettle_  
_1 part peppermint (Sn = fresh)_  
_(Sn = Brew on a Monday; one cw. for ea. 3 ccw., can be re-heated using warming spell)_

_Detoxifying oil__ - 10 drops Cypress; 10 drops Fennel; 10 drops Juniper. (Sn = 8 drops Cypress, 10 Fennel, 9 Juniper. Store in grn. bttl. Keep out of sunlight)_

It took him a moment to work out that "Sn" was Potter's indication that he had copied out not only the author's instructions, but also Snape's own hand-written annotations. It took him several more moments to realize the potions could possibly be considered appropriate for his current condition. And it took him a full minute to begin laughing, albeit shakily, at Potter's "What's that?" after the word "libido".

Potter entered the ward backward, concentrating on a tray bearing a steaming tea pot and a mug, hovering waist high behind him – or was it in front of him? Snape had time to drop his arms and draw his sleeves down to his wrists.

Each wound he had touched had brought back, in exquisitely painful detail, a strike of the giant snake.

_ Nagini_… _Kill._

_ Fred…_

He fought down bile, fought – unsuccessfully – the shivers that overtook him. His blood turned to ice as remembered terror – not for him, but for the end of any possible chance to help the boy – turned his intestines to water.

_ He's alive. It's over. He's safe, _he had been thinking, over and over, in an attempt to calm himself, ease the pain in his gut.

_ Fred…_

Then – a sharp intake of breath – he realized that he still did not, in fact, _know… _that he could not recall if anyone had actually said the words… And his stomach had just clenched in sudden fear that it was not reallyover, that there was yet the possibility, even the likelihood, that the Dark Lord, through some other unspeakable form of dark magic, could return yet again. His heart nearly failed at the thought, pounding so urgently that it hurt.

Then Potter backed into the room and turned around, the tray following the point of his wand, and the sight nearly made him sick with relief, which, as the boy was so focused, Potter thankfully did not see. He mastered himself with supreme effort, and watched the boy's approach, half tempted to startle him, just to prove that he bloody well _could_. But he stifled that as well. _He'd probably drop the damned thing all over me._

Potter let the tea settle to the bed table and pulled it over the bed toward Snape. Steam carried the distinctive scents to Snape's nose, and his upper lip twitched, his eyes sparking darkly.

_ Libido (what's that?)_

He scowled to hide his amusement.

"I brought you some tea, Professor," the boy said, his eyes guarded, thinking, Snape realized, to hide the fact that the "tea" was, in fact, a potion. He decided to let this play out.

"That was… thoughtful of you, Potter..." The boy looked at him, startled. _Wrong approach. _"… but utterly unnecessary, I assure you," he amended, and the boy settled at the more familiar tone. "… as I am perfectly capable of acquiring tea from the house elves if I should so desire. Nevertheless, as it is here, there would be no purpose in wasting it… Pour yourself a cup." He waited, his eyes narrowed, but was disappointed: Potter seemed prepared for that particular ploy.

"Oh – no, thank you, Professor. I've just had some at dinner." _Clever. Next step._

"Very well," he said in reluctant resignation. Potter poured a mug of the steamy concoction. Snape's nose twitched as he detected just exactly the correct proportion of ashwagandha root and long pepper, as well as the particular dark, purplish brown tint that indicated the potion had stewed precisely ten minutes. As that would have required Potter to continue the brew, hover the tray, _and _walk to the ward from whence he came – presumably the Great Hall, if his claim to have had his supper was true – the feat was particularly impressive. Not that a minute or three either way would ruin the concoction. The brew was not _that _complicated. He sniffed.

"Ashwagandha tea, Potter?" he growled darkly.

The boy blanched.

"Are you_ dosing _me,Potter?" he drawled, still hiding his amusement. The somniferic was not so powerful that a self-rennervating charm would not dispel its effects.

The boy reddened. Snape let him sit with his discomfort, then picked up the mug.

"Honey."

"What?"

"Honey, Potter, or do you expect me to drink this unsweetened?"

"I… the potions book didn't mention honey, Professor." He could see the boy kick himself for that slip.

"Potter – how do you take your tea?" he asked, still in a menacing tone.

"Sir?"

"It is a simple enough question, Potter. I expect a simple answer."

"Ah… well… I… ah…"

Snape raised his chin to look down his nose at the boy. "Yes? Do go on, Potter, I can hardly stand the wait."

"With… with honey and milk, sir," he responded, a flash of irritation on his face. Snape was enjoying this.

"And why, Potter, would _milk _be a bad choice to add to this particular… tea… for this particular… patient?"

The boy's eyes flashed angrily and he looked Snape in the eyes challengingly. "Because the milk would be curdled by the pepper oil, Professor. And in regard to _you_, the milk could weaken your _already weakened _immune system. Sir."

Snape narrowed his eyes.

"And what would be the effects of honey under the same circumstances, Mr. Potter?" he demanded.

The boy frowned in concentration, his eyes slightly left of center and slightly north of midline, indicating he was recalling either something he had read, or – unlikely as it seemed – a potions lecture from third year.

"Honey would enhance the anti-inflammatory effect." He stopped.

"Go on," Snape drawled.

"And… and…" He stopped again. "… I don't know, sir." He looked at Snape challengingly – and more than a little annoyed, Snape thought – not that he blamed the boy.

"And _sweetens the tea_, Potter, making it more potable. Never underestimate _taste_ as a curative factor, Potter, especially as this particular concoction is utterly vile without sweetener. Especially if brewed… incorrectly." He drew out the last word meaningfully, if inaccurately. "Well? What are you waiting for? It needs honey if you intend me to drink this mess."

The boy flushed, raised his wand, and – nonverbally, Snape did not fail to notice – conjured a bowl of honey and a honey dipper. _Neatly done._

"Thank you, Potter. You may be seated."

The boy nearly turned on his heel at that. Not that Snape would have faulted him if he _had_ stormed out - Snape _was_ needling him mercilessly. However, he caught himself. Throwing Snape a deeply disgusted look, grasping the edges of his robe and crossing his arms over his chest – much as Snape would have, if he only knew – he hooked the chair with one foot so it faced Snape's bed, sat, and glared as Snape sipped delicately at the (delicious, warming) tea and pondered how to get Potter to tell him what he desperately neededto know, short of asking _So… did you really off Voldemort?_

Unfortunately, Snape overestimated his ability to counter the effects of the mildly sedative brew. His still-weakened condition made him more susceptible, so that he shortly found himself blinking drowsily. He intended to lay his head back just for a moment, to rest his eyes. Instead, he had fallen asleep, sitting upright against the pillows, one hand still grasping the handle of the tea cup, the other laying limply in his lap. So he missed Potter's satisfied smirk – as well as the exceeding care with which the boy removed the mug and tray, lowered the head of the bed, and drew the covers up around Snape's shoulders.

Harry stood there some ten minutes, looking down at the man, studying his face, one hand unconsciously on Snape's covered hand, remembering the things he had seen in the Pensieve. He kept trying to reconcile the flashes of fear and anger that marked the memories of, alternately, Snape's burning desire to protect him, Harry, and the man's growing disappointment in and frustration with the Headmaster.

His stomach turned to knots thinking about it. The fact of the matter was, no matter the way he turned things around to examine them, Dumbledore had used him… used Snape as well. Oh, he cared for Harry well enough – Snape too, in fact; that was clear. But those feelings neither negated nor outweighed the fact that both Harry and Snape were tools, instruments of war to Dumbledore. Harry still respected the Headmaster. Understood him, even. But there was a certain cold-bloodedness in how he had manipulated Harry and used Snape. He was surprised to find himself angry – not for himself, but for Snape. What the man had been through as Dumbledore's pawn… or if not pawn, at least his bishop – still expendable, when it came down to it. He did not know if he could forgive Dumbledore for that – or even if he wanted to. It made his head hurt, and his heart hurt, though he did not know if it was more for himself or for Snape.

So he just watched the professor sleep, no longer needing to count breaths. Snape's regular breathing soothed him, and he exhaled on a sigh, patted the hand under the blanket, and settled himself in the chair.

_ He was falling in the forest, a flash of green light the last thing he would ever see. He was falling onto a white platform… falling into the Pensieve… into Snape's memories… falling onto the floor in Dumbledore's office… falling onto the forest floor again… falling out of Hagrid's arms… And that disorientation became a wand, which was falling end over end, falling toward him, and he caught it, only to see Voldemort falling… falling… falling empty-handed… and Snape falling over as the snake fell upon him… his wand poking uselessly out of one sleeve. His wand... His wand…_

Harry whimpered. His legs kicked, hit something hard. "Potter," someone murmured, shaking his shoulder lightly. "Potter… you're all right… you're safe… it's over… it's just a dream… you're safe…" But he couldn't wake up… he watched as Snape's life slipped away, drop by drop, pooling under his hand, as Snape begged "_Take… it..._" A sobbing "_Nooo!_" came out of him. There was a flash of light. A ghostly white face leaned over him. He cried out and came suddenly awake.

Snape knelt in front of Potter's chair in the darkness, the boy's face shadowed in the glow from the tip of Snape's wand, his eyes widened in terror, not really seeing, not really awake. The boy gave a wordless cry and threw himself at Snape, who caught him before he tumbled from the chair. Potter held onto him, shaking and sobbing. Snape stiffened, then tightened his arms around the boy. He eased back onto his heels, pulling the boy to him without conscious decision, and continued to whisper into the dark hair, "It's all right Potter… it's all right… you're safe… you're not alone… you're safe... it's over… you're safe…" His voice and his arms trembled.

After a time, the boy's shaking sobs eased. He still shook from time to time, but that eventually stopped altogether, until he was a warm leaden weight against Snape's pounding heart. He held the boy a while longer, to be sure he was asleep, then, realizing he himself was falling asleep, he leaned forward and, with great difficulty in his weakened condition, resettled the boy on the chair.

Pulling a blanket from the bed behind the boy's chair, he tucked it around him, brushing the hair from his damp forehead, one thumb drawing itself shakily down the boy's cheek, still wet with his tears. He wiped one hand over his own face, sighed and, with a wave of his wand, shifted the chair close to his bed. Then, shaking with anger he did not understand, as well as from what he told himself was exhaustion, he worked his way back into bed, doused his wand with a hoarsely whispered "_Nox_", and stretched one hand out to rest on Potter's head, in case he woke again.

* * *

_That was Chapter 5 of 30. To be continued..._


	7. Hagrid's Tale

CHAPTER SIX

HAGRID'S TALE

Poppy's cheerful tone and Hagrid's gruff voice woke him…

"… sent him down to breakfast."

Hagrid sniffed and blew his nose. "He's a good boy, our Harry. Did ya' see…?"

"Yes. They're nearly always like that in the mornings. He won't leave the man," came Poppy's soft reply.

Snape shifted as he struggled to wake up, irritated at being talked about, talked over.

"P'fessor?"

"Shh… don't wake him."

"I'm awake, Poppy." He finally pried his eyes open and squinted at the light coming through the window, framing nothing but blue sky.

"P'fesser! It's good to see you, sir!" Hagrid's dustpan-sized hand patted his shoulder _– patted him! –_ exceedingly gently, which is to say it pounded him down into the mattress, making his buttocks ache again. Snape bore it without even a wince.

"Hagrid…" Snape realized he was checking a name off on a mental list he had not been aware he had been keeping, one column labeled _Us,_ with Potter at its head, followed by Minerva, Arthur, Miss Granger, Draco, and half a dozen other voices, a second column labeled _Them,_ containing Bellatrix, Dolohov, Greyback, Lucius…

His relief must have shown on his face, because the half giant sniffled again. "Aye, I'm a'right, P'fessor… me and Grawpy too – and Fang. We all made it." Snape's stomach tightened.

He barely noted Poppy tending to his nearly-healed wounds until Hagrid winced when she pulled back the sleeve of his left arm. "Poppy," he murmured. She continued what she was doing, without looking up. "Poppy," he said again, grasping her wrist lightly. She looked up, read his expression, and stopped.

"I'll just let you finish with these yourself, Severus, shall I, now that you're awake?" He nodded. "I'll check that you do," she warned.

"Poppy…" he begged.

She nodded, lifted her chin to direct his attention to the breakfast tray on the bedside table – _solid food… _his stomach growled_ – _patted his knee and, throwing a meaningful look at Hagrid, went off to breakfast.

The chair creaked ominously under Hagrid's weight, but it held as he leaned to place the tray on Snape's knees.

"Me an' Grawpy are doin' jes' fine, P'fessor," Hagrid said, his beetle-black eyes crinkling warmly. "Y' should see 'im helpin' with th' buildin'. I ain't never seen 'im so happy. 'Course it helps that ever'one is nice to 'im now. 'Specially after th'…" Hagrid caught himself. "An' Fang – he's as happy as a pup. You shoulda' seen 'im…" Hagrid interrupted himself again. "Try some o' that porridge, P'fessor. Harry put some honey in it fer yeh before he left."

Snape hesitated a moment, then dipped a spoon into the porridge, his mind rapidly calculating the best way to keep the man talking. "Go on," he said to Hagrid. "You were saying about Fang…?"

"Oh – er – yeah… he's… he's a good dog, Fang, i'n' he?"

"Indeed." Snape eyed the half-giant over his spoon. Clearly he had been instructed not to say anything upsetting. Snape's stomach constricted at the thought of what _upsetting _might include. _Fifty four… Fred Weasley… Fifty four… Fred… "…after Potter came out of the forest with Voldemort…" …What?_

"And… how is the faculty?"

Hagrid's eyes crinkled again. "Oh, they're right busy, P'fessor. Got th' students busy too, the ones tha' decided to stay to finish out th' term. Yeh'd be proud of 'em, P'fessor, carrying on after… after… Well – yeh'd be proud of 'em is all I'm sayin'. Flitwick …"

_ Check. _

_ "_…he's got th' p'tections all set up, an' P'fesser Sprout…"

_ Check._

_ "_…she's bin holdin' classes reg'ler in herbology, an' her students are replantin' th' bushes an' trees an' stuff. Neville Longbottom…"

_ Check._

_ "_… he's a big help. A right hero our Neville." Hagrid's chest swelled with pride and he chuckled. "Shoulda' seen 'im swing that sword…"

_ What? _

"… mos' beau'iful thing I ever seen when he lopped off that ruddy snake's head…"

_What__? _

"… jus' took 'im one swing!"

Snape's hand stopped halfway to his mouth. Porridge slopped down the front of his pajamas, but he took no notice. Hagrid babbled on. Snape lowered his shaking hand to the tray and set down the spoon, quite deliberately. He swallowed. Hagrid finally noticed that he was not listening.

"P… P'fessor? You all right there?"

Snape looked up into Hagrid's suddenly concerned eyes. He swallowed again.

"The… snake… is…"

"Oh… yeah… dead," Hagrid said, his face clearing. "Not that I ever wanna see a animal die, P'fessor, yeh understan' – me 'n' animals an' all…" He chuckled, then his voice hardened, "… but that snake needed killin' if ever a snake did."

"Indeed," Snape whispered.

Hagrid's face suddenly turned red, and his eyes shifted uncomfortably to Snape's hands and neckline. Snape twitched a shoulder, wishing the pajamas he wore did not expose his collarbone.

"Er… anyway, P'fessor, Neville lad, he… he pulled Godric Gryffindor's sword from that damned flaming hat…"

_What__? _

"… 'an he jus'…" Hagrid made a swinging motion with both hands, just missing Snape's nose. "Oh – sorry, P'fessor… Anyway, then Harry… I couldn' fin' 'im… he jes' disappeared, an'…"

Snape shook his head. He wasn't following this. He put up a hand. Hagrid came to a halt. "Hagrid," he said, staring at the half-giant shakily. "Start at the beginning." If he had had his waistcoat on, he would have tugged at its bottom. As it was, he inhaled and straightened up against the back of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

Hagrid looked down at Snape with such warmth and understanding that Snape suspected he knew more about his headmaster than Snape was comfortable with. Hagrid swallowed and dropped his gaze to his hands, shredding whatever it was he was holding. "Thing is, P'fessor… I ain't s'posed to talk about it."

"Hagrid."

The half-giant continued to shred whatever was in his hands, looking guilty. Snape forced his own hands and voice still.

"Hagrid. Look. At. Me." Hagrid did so, and Snape, an exasperated look on his face, continued. "I'm _fine. _And I have been lying in this damned bed for five weeks…"

"Five an' a half, P'fessor, if yeh wanta know th' truth."

"_Fine._ Five and a half," Snape enunciated through gritted teeth. "Do I _look_ like I am dying?"

Hagrid looked up, a grin splitting his thick beard. "Well, P'fessor… now that I come to look at yeh…"

"I'm _fine_," he emphasized. "I assure you that I am _not dying_. I am not _going_ to die. I have no _intention_ of dying. I have _every_ intention of continuing to live… at least long enough to hex everyone senseless unless they _stop patting me._" He snarled at Hagrid's grin. "And last I checked, I was still Headmaster of this school. As such, I am ordering you…"

"All righ', all righ'! Say no more. I'm not thick, P'fess… Headmaster… I'll tell yeh… Though," he amended, "I on'y know some o' it a'course, an' I don' unnerstan' some o' what I do know."

Snape waited – his eyes steely, his arms crossed on his chest. Hagrid heaved a sigh.

"Well… me an' Grawpy an' Fang were inna mountains, keepin' watch, y'know…"

Snape nodded.

"An' we heard You-Know-… Volde-… his voice… an' he was sayin'…"

"I heard that much." He resisted the urge to drum impatiently on his elbows.

"Oh – yeah… er… well… Grawpy an' Fang an' me, we went down th' mountain an' inter th' forest, 'cause we knew th' battle was goin' ter start. An' when it did, Grawpy - he picked me an' Fang up, 'cause he knew I wanted ter get ter th' castle, see, an' he jes… well, you know Grawpy… he jes did it th' bes' he could an' he threw me an' Fang through a window…"

Snape winced, but Hagrid was warming to his story and did not notice.

"An' then we looked up an'… _there was Harry_! Well, he jes' yelled, an' me an' Fang took off, an'…"

Hagrid talked on, but Snape's thoughts had gotten stuck.

_ "There was Harry…"_

_ Of course. Of course Potter was there… He __had__ gotten into the castle, then… and Minerva… she had to have known…_ but of course, Snape had played his part well this past year…played Voldemort's right hand… played Dumbledore's murderer… played Harry's mortal enemy… played his part well, so that Voldemort's repeated violations of his mind would not see him protecting the boy… protecting the students… protecting his colleagues.

He fought down the bile forcing its way up from his stomach thinking of the role he had been forced to play, what it had cost him… what it had nearly cost him… what it cost Minerva, Sprout, Flitwick, Hagrid, Potter… and the Weasleys… It was all part of the plan – Dumbledore's plan, though it was never a perfect plan. How many others paid the cost? _Charity Burbage… Mad Eye… For what?_ For him to protect Potter… while Dumbledore played his game… played at bringing down the Dark Lord _for the greater good_, just as it had said in that damned biography Rita Skeeter had written.

_ Of course _McGonagall had not told him.

He forced himself to pay attention to what Hagrid was saying… forced himself to thrust anger and bitterness and self-loathing aside. _What happened?_ He had to know… had to know the cost.

Hagrid had chased the acromantulas out of the castle –_"Don' hurt 'em… don' hurt 'em…" – _following them right down to the forest's edge, into the forest, back to their hollow, Fang chasing after him, Potter's shouted "_Hagrid!_" in his ears. Death Eaters and defenders alike – from the school and from Hogsmeade – had scattered before the beasts, all of them throwing spells their way. Somehow, something finally tripped up the big man. It must have been multiple simultaneous spells: only that could have penetrated the half-giant's skin. He came to, tied between two trees, arms trussed behind him, his pink parasol nowhere in sight.

Voldemort and his followers were waiting for something. Silent… pacing… and then two Death Eaters had shown up – Dolohov, Yaxley.

_ "No sign of him, my lord."_

_ "I thought he would come… I expected him to come…"_

Hagrid's voice shook in remembered anger and fear. "An' then there he was, P'fessor… an'… 'NO,' I said… 'No, Harry!' ... but he jes' stood there, no wand er nothin', an'… an' You-Know-Who… _Voldemort_… he jes'… he jes'… killed 'im."

Snape's eyes jerked back to Hagrid's. He shook his head. _A green flash…_

"Hagrid… _what?_"

"… at leas' tha's what it looked like. An' Narcissa - after Voldemort came to…"

Snape shook his head. _What?_

"… he ordered her to check, an'… an'… she said Harry was dead…"

… _What?_

"… an'… I thought he was… an' th' res' o' them, Vol… _Voldemort_, that bloody coward…" Hagrid's voice shook. "… _then _he bloody _tortured _th' boy…"

Snape's face blanched. He dug his fingers into his arms.

"… an' then he made me carry 'im… not that I woulda' let anyone else touch 'im…"

Tears were rolling down Hagrid's face. Snape… _envied_ him that. He was frozen… unable to move… unable to think… unable to do anything other than stare at Hagrid, the horrific images from the man's mind easy to read – too easy – as Snape struggled to cope with the giant's memories and emotions as well as his own.

But Hagrid was not finished.

"… an' we wen' up ter th' castle so he could _brag that he had won_…" Hagrid's voice dripped sarcasm and hatred. "… an'… that bastard… that wasn' enough fer 'im, was it? No! He had ter lie an' say Harry was runnin' away… an everyone was hollerin' an' shoutin' an' he tried to make 'em stop, but Neville… Neville Longbottom, he 'fronted 'im, he did…" Hagrid drew himself up on the chair proudly. "… an' he said…"

And then, without meaning to, without eye contact even, Snape was in Hagrid's mind, watching as Longbottom defied the Dark Lord.

_ "I'll join you when hell freezes over… DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY!" Longbottom shouted, thrusting his fist into the air… and the defenders of Hogwarts shouted and cheered._

_ "Very well," Voldemort uttered. _And Snape quaked for Longbottom, knowing that deadly, icy voice, knowing the boy was a moment from death. _"If that is your choice, Longbottom, we revert to the original plan. On your head… let it be."_

_ And then Neville was aflame, the Sorting Hat on his head… and then… chaos._

Snape jerked… if anything, he turned even paler, his eyes so black the irises had disappeared, lost… lost in it. He turned a blind face away from Hagrid's, barely listening, still immersed in Hagrid's jumbled memory.

"… an' then… an' then… Harry… well… Harry… he jes'… wasn' there anymore. An' Neville… he jes' tore th' Hat off his head an' pulled th' Sword out o' that bloody hat an' swung, an'… an'… th' snake was dead… jes' like that… An' then, o' course, I went hollerin' for Harry 'cause I couldn' find 'im…"

Snape shook his head loose from Hagrid's mind, the hiccup in the action finally jarring him loose from the chaotic, insane images.

"I… I thought you said he was… dead…" he croaked out.

"Well… he was, P'fessor – leas' tha's what I thought, but obviously that weren' true…"

Snape nodded, not in understanding – _Who in bloody hell could understand this?_ – but to keep Hagrid talking.

"… b'cause there he was, inna Great Hall… an' he an' You-Know-Who, they battled it out…"

He couldn't see it… couldn't see what could have happened… couldn't see how Potter had come to be there, how he could have survived not one, but two confrontations with the deadliest wizard ever to live. Desperate to understand, he fell into Hagrid's mind again.

"… an' Harry was sayin' sumthin' about a wand, an' Draco Malfoy, an' you bein' Dumbledore's man all along…"

Snape twitched.

"… an' remorse… Well, I din' exactly follow that part… An' then You-Know-Who, he tried to kill Harry again wi' that damned killin' curse, but Harry… well… he jus' yelled _Expelliarmus! _ An' I thought he was a goner, b'cause how was that gonna work? But… an' I don' unnerstan' this, P'fessor, hones' I don', but tha' killin' curse… somehow it hit You-Know-Who instead an'… an'… that was it… he was down… an' Harry… Harry stood there, with… with that bastard's wand…" Hagrid finished weakly.

Snape looked toward the giant again, his face frozen, his mind a disordered tangle of images, both his and Hagrid's. … _A second green flash… the floor under him in the shack… Potter's face over his… Voldemort's disappointment with the wand… Dumbledore falling off the Astronomy Tower… Draco Malfoy… Voldemort falling… the wand arcing through the air into Potter's waiting palm._

_ It made sense… It made sense… but he couldn't see it… it made sense but he couldn't… it made sense but…_

"P'fessor?"

He realized that Hagrid had been talking to him, trying to get his attention. He inhaled. His chest hurt. His head hurt. His whole body hurt. He shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts and feelings and the whirl of images that was making him nauseous, dizzy.

"You a'right, P'fessor?" Hagrid asked gently. "D'yeh need anythin'…?"

"No… Hagrid. I'm fine… Thank you… I'm just… tired." He sat frozen in place while images tried to resolve themselves into some kind of order, something he could make sense of… Hagrid patted him gently on the back, shoving him down against the mattress again, but he barely noticed.

After a few minutes, the half-giant said gently, "I'll jus' let you res' then, P'fessor…"

Snape nodded. He felt Hagrid move the tray from his lap, half-eaten. Something sticky disappeared from his chest. He barely noticed. The door to the ward clicked softly. He sat staring at nothing, trying to make it make sense… trying to understand…

* * *

_That was Chapter 6 of 30. To be continued..._


	8. The Forest of Dean

**Disclaimer**: I soooo wish these people were mine... that the universe they walk in belonged to me... but they don't. They belong to the wonderfully talented J.K. Rowling, may she write forever.

Feed me feedback. It's all I get out of it. I promise I'll love it.

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CHAPTER SEVEN

THE FOREST OF DEAN

_ What happened?_

_ What happened?_

He kept seeing Potter, falling dead across the clearing from Voldemort… kept seeing the boy's body…

His chest hurt. His eyes burned. He dug at them with the heels of his hands, which came away wet. He didn't notice.

_ A green flash… Potter lying dead in the forest clearing… Narcissa bending over the boy_… _the boy's body being tossed in the air again and again for sport…_

His stomach burned and bile tried to force its way up his gullet. _Oh gods… why wasn't he dead?_

_ The boy's dead weight in his – Hagrid's – arms…_

_ The boy's leaden weight against him last night, his heart pounding…_

His chest hurt… he was having trouble breathing through the pain of it…

_ Potter at Hagrid's feet, the Dark Lord pacing in front of him…_

_ Potter, across the room_, saying things too complex for Hagrid to understand… to encode…

_ What happened?_

He kept coming back to the wand. _The wand Voldemort had taken from Dumbledore's grave… flying through the air… Potter's arm outstretched, picking it out of the air as effortlessly, as gracefully as if it were the Snitch in some Hufflepuff-Gryffindor Quidditch game… The boy standing there… just standing there… before the image broke as Hagrid raced the other defenders to Potter's side._

_ "And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That's very important…"_

He kept replaying the wand's arc in his mind, kept seeing it in slow motion. Potter's wand in his right hand… his _Expelliarmus!… _the stolen wand arcing down toward his left, tumbling end over end… Potter's unerring grab almost magical in and of itself, as if the wand were seeking him out… as if they were meant for each other… as if it were Hedwig, homing in on the boy.

_ "Are you intending to let him kill you?"_

_ "Certainly not. __You__ must kill me…"_

_ It made sense._ He could almost make it make sense.

_ "Severus… please…"_

Then his mind went back to the forest… back to Voldemort… back to Potter, _undefended… closing his eyes… just waiting… and the green flash… and the shack… and the snake… and Fawkes… and Potter's green eyes, Potter at the side of his bed, saying "Four days…" Potter throwing himself into Snape's arms – was that just last night?_

_ "And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential…"_

Snape curled up on his right side, facing away from the door, staring out the high window at the blue sky, unseeing, trying not to think, trying not to see, trying not to feel, trying not to remember, his chest aching, his stomach on fire, his eyes burning with tears that rolled onto his blanket from his black, unblinking eyes.

"Professor?"

"Potter."

He sat with his elbows on his bent knees, his head bowed into his hands, fingers in his hair, thumbs massaging his temples. He had a headache. His eyes hurt. His stomach hurt. He had vomited, repeatedly – first the porridge, then yesterday's pumpkin juice, then, when his stomach was empty, he had nearly vomited up his organs themselves in dry heaves that left him shaking and weak. He had banished the mess before Poppy could return from wherever she was, wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, and gone to the bathroom to clean himself up. He would have crawled if he had to… nearly had needed to. Then he feigned sleep when Poppy came to check on him, so that she would leave him alone to sort things out… _hopeless._

Snape's voice was flat in his own ears. He had heard the door open, but did not bother to pretend sleep this time.

His wounds hurt… _I don't remember them hurting before_. His mind refused to stop… refused to start… stuttered over the things he had seen and heard and felt in Hagrid's story. He kept shaking his head. He shook it now… _still not making sense_.

"What is it, Potter?"

"Sir… If you want… I can come back…"

Silence.

Potter turned to go, was nearly at the door. Snape sighed.

"Potter… wait." He heard the boy drag his feet back. "Sit." The boy sat… and waited.

"Are you…?"

"Just… _wait_, Potter. I am trying to collect my thoughts. Be silent," he demanded quietly, his throat raw. That made his head hurt worse and he closed his eyes. Potter inhaled, then was still. "Breathe, Potter, or I shall end up picking you up off the floor," he said quietly, without heat. The boy exhaled, then continued to breathe lightly. _I really should follow suit._

He breathed. _There. That wasn't so hard. Again,_ he ordered himself. Slowly the tightness in his chest eased up. _Breathing does help, _he heard in Phineas Nigellus Black's snide nasal tones in his head. He flinched then twitched in annoyance. He had no desire to set foot in the headmaster's office. Ever again. Of that he was sure. If one thing – just one – had come clear in the past several hours, it was that he'd be _damned_ if he ever spoke to Dumbledore's portrait again.

But the rest… he just didn't know. He didn't know where to _begin_. For that, he needed Potter… but… he didn't know how to begin there, either. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs again, then scrubbed at his face with his hands, sighing heavily. He felt like death warmed over. He almost laughed at that. _Perfect._

He lay back against his pillows, wincing at the pain in his lower back. _I have to get out of this damned bed._ He turned his head to look at the boy sitting like one of the castle's statues on the chair Hagrid had vacated hours ago. Potter watched him, a slightly fearful look in his eyes.

_ I have no idea who you are_, Snape realized.The thought made him feel slightly sick, ashamed.

"Where were you?" he asked quietly.

"Sir?"

"Where were you this afternoon?"

"… I was with my friends, sir. Ron… Ginny…" _Of course… Check… Check. _"Hermione… Hermione said she came to see you…"

"Yes," he said dryly.

Potter's lips nearly twitched at that. So did Snape's. It occurred to him that they were very alike, he and Potter. The notion hit him like a blow, so that his breathing and his thoughts stopped – again – before they stuttered back into motion.

"Sir…"

"Potter…" His lips twitched.

The boy waited, respectfully. Snape sighed and looked away. He looked back. The boy met his eyes, puzzled.

"Do you… do you want to talk about it?"

Potter closed his eyes. Watching him war with himself about whether or not to talk… whether to talk with _Snape_, of all people – _And why __should__ he talk with me… of all people?_ – what on earth to talk about, Snape realized that the boy was… tired… thin – _thinner than usual_… He wondered what the boy had eaten, on the run all this time. His eyes were nearly as sunken as Snape's had been, looking in the mirror over the washbasin.

_ Do you want to talk about it?_

Potter had wrapped his arms around his chest as if he was in pain… _Of course he was in pain._

_ What am I doing? _Why was he doing this to the boy? For his own satisfaction? Because it was the only way to get answers? What did that matter? Hadn't the boy been through enough?

Just as he inhaled, about to say _Potter, never mind. Go back to your friends, _the boy spoke.

"The Forest of Dean." The boy opened his eyes.

Snape looked over at him, closed his eyes, nodded, opened them and held the boy's gaze. He exhaled. "Yes."

"You were there when I went into the pool."

"Yes."

Silence.

"… I nearly didn't come out."

"… I know."

"Ron… Ron fished me out of there."

"I saw."

"You were there… by those trees."

"Yes."

"If Ron hadn't…"

"He did."

"But if he hadn't…"

"Then, Potter, I would have fetched you out." He sighed.

"But that would have ruined it! He would have seen. How could have you gone back to Voldemort after that?"

Snape shook his head. "I don't know. I would have found a way, I suppose."

"He would have killed you. He would have _tortured_ you!" The boy's voice shook.

Snape sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Yes – probably." _Like you,_ he wanted to say. But he was not ready for that yet.

"The doe… I thought it was familiar because it was my mother's." Potter spoke reflectively, almost as if Snape wasn't there. "After the Pensieve, I mean. It _was_ my mother's, wasn't it?"

Snape closed his eyes, nodded. "Yes." He opened his eyes to see Potter looking puzzled.

"But that wasn't why… That's not what made it familiar." He looked up at Snape, the green of his eyes, if anything, a shade deeper, not really seeing, back in the Forest of Dean, back watching the doe. "It's because it was you… And I felt… safe."

The boy stopped talking… and Snape's heart nearly stopped beating.

_ Safe… safe… safe…._

And then it hit him.

Because… he _hadn't_ kept the boy safe, had he? He had walked Potter into the trap – as good as handed him over to Voldemort, to Dumbledore. _That was it,_ he realized. _That was the key._ Snape had, in fact, nearly finished the path of destruction he had set out on more than eighteen years ago, when he had spied at the door at the Hog's Head Inn, and told the Dark Lord what he had heard.

Because he'd been blind, he realized – a tool in Dumbledore's hand as blind and dumb as the bits of brass and silver that spun in Dumbledore's office… as blind and as dumb as a quill feather or a blank piece of parchment… just something to be used to accomplish the man's aims. It was, after all – as he had flung at Dumbledore once in a moment of partial clarity – just that he was fattening Potter for the slaughter… dangling the boy in front of the Dark Lord so that Dumbledore could, at the right time, see to his destruction, the boy an unfortunate, nearly irrelevant bit of bait, the cheese which Voldemort would toy with and devour as the trap that Dumbledore planned sprang shut, crushing the life out of him _for the greater good. _So he had _not_ kept the boy safe… the boy had never been safe with him. _Never_. He had only led him down the path into the forest, defenseless, alone, bait to be slaughtered _for the greater good._

It took his breath away, nearly took him out of his body in an effort to flee the sudden knowledge that he had merely been a tool, a blind, unthinking tool, in a plan that was _supposed to have_ ended in the boy's destruction. He held his breath. When he exhaled, it was as if all the life breathed out of him, all his body's warmth stolen away by the cold, hard truth. The boy had _never_ been safe with him…

"Get out, Potter," he whispered.

_ The boy had never been safe with him._

"Sir?"

_ He'd __never__ been safe…_

"Get out."

The boy said nothing.

Snape looked away, could not look at him. "Get out," he rasped.

Potter sat there, as if Petrified… or merely petrified. He looked up to find the boy staring at him uncomprehendingly.

"_Get out._ Get out, Potter, and don't come back, do you understand me? _GET OUT!_" The boy stumbled from his chair and fled.

Snape sat on the bed, unseeing. Shortly, he began to shake again, dry heaves tearing at his stomach and throat until Poppy came and dosed him back to a nightmare-filled sleep.

* * *

That was Chapter 7 of 30. To be continued...


	9. The End of Year Feast

The Usual Disclaimer: Not mine. NO! NO! NO! SEVERUSSSSS! *sobs* Just out to play with me for reasons of their own - just play, no work, no remuneration. Apologies to J.K. Rowling.

Feedback feeds my soul and I will love you for it - especially if you are nice.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

THE END OF YEAR FEAST

Two days on, Minerva McGonagall finally asked about it.

"Where has Potter been keeping himself, Severus?"

"I wouldn't know."

"We could hardly keep him away from you before now."

He remained silent, looking away from her, pretending interest in the blue nothing out the high window as he stood on the far side of the bed from her.

"Severus…"

"I don't want to talk about it, Minerva. Please," he said, his voice as empty as the dry husk he felt he had become. He didn't know who he was anymore... who he had ever been.

"The boy just sits there, Severus. He…"

"Minerva. _Please."_

She sighed. "Come to breakfast, Severus. The faculty and students… they would like to see you."

"Not yet, Minerva. Maybe tomorrow."

She sighed and left him alone.

He worked on avoiding it. He focused on his muscles, on building up his body. He exercised. He ate – but often vomited it up as soon as Madam Pomfrey took up her work in her office. He worked in the infirmary's apothecary, replenishing the potions that had been so dangerously depleted in the days following the battle, getting one of the house elves to bring him supplies. He took over making up his own potions, grimly dabbing ointments on each bite wound and the place the dark mark had stained his skin for the last twenty-two years. He paced the ward, and whenever he came near it, he looked at the door, wondering what he would find once he worked up the courage to move beyond it.

Kingsley Shacklebolt came to visit, needing his help making up a list of Death Eaters and Snatchers, reviewing what Snape knew about their activities, the victims. He brought a _Daily Prophet_, which Snape tossed, unread, in Poppy's fire when she left her quarters for dinner, leaving them open so Snape could rest and read on her sofa rather than the bed. He read her healer's tomes, avoiding the stack of potion books Potter had left on his bedside table, not even wanting to think of what the boy might have been reading… not wanting to think of Potter at all.

Arthur Weasley visited him, looking at him strangely, but saying nothing about the boy, just talking about the Order's progress and frustrations – in equal measure – in chasing down wanted witches and wizards… and conveying Molly's invitation to dinner. "Not yet, Arthur, I'm sorry," he had said tonelessly. "Give Molly my love and my regrets." Arthur almost said something at that, but settled for patting him on the arm, and left. When he was gone, Snape realized he had not yet said anything to the man about his son. That made his chest hurt. He worked it off by pacing.

Minerva began talking about the next term, and about plans to offer remedial classes to any student who wished to repeat the last, disastrous year. When he did not respond, she had prompted him, and in a moment of clarity, he told her he was not intending to return. Her shocked response made him grimace, but he knew it was the right decision. _He had to get out of here._ She hammered at it until he asked her to leave him alone. Then he took up pacing again, picturing – and rejecting – himself returning to Spinner's End, where last he had unwillingly hosted Peter Pettigrew, and where Narcissa and Bellatrix had managed to back him, unknowingly, deeper into Dumbledore's plan.

He bore it. With every step, he paced the path he had begun back when he was eleven and the Sorting Hat had placed him in Slytherin… or back before then, when he had watched Lily and her Muggle sister play on the swings… or back before that, when he had huddled miserably at home, trying to make himself invisible to escape his pureblood mother's insanity and his Muggle father's indifferent cruelty, and wished he could do it all differently… or at least could have managed to die before the damage began… perhaps when he had followed Lupin and Potter and Black and Pettigrew under the Whomping Willow… _if only James had let Lupin kill him…_

_ But no… James had saved him, hadn't he?_ And then Snape had snuffed out _his_ life, and the life of his wife, and then – though it took him long enough to finish the task – had snuffed out the life of their son, never mind that the boy was here, now. _And safe._ No thanks to Snape.

"Severus."

He had not heard her come in.

"Minerva," he sighed.

She waited nearly a full minute.

"The Board of Governors refuses to accept your resignation."

He laughed hollowly and looked up to find her eyeing him like the hawk she was. He flinched, and did not even bother to hide it. "It doesn't matter, Minerva. I shall not be here when term begins."

She lifted her chin at him in what he recognized as "fighting mode". "Please, Minerva," he said quietly. "I don't wish to argue with you. I have no desire to return as Headmaster, and I have no desire to return as head of Slytherin." He shivered at the thought of either, and wrapped his robe about himself more tightly.

"I understand."

He said nothing.

"I have another proposal for you, then, Professor."

_ Professor. _His chest hurt. He'd never hear that again… would never _teach_ again. It hurt. He would miss it. Whatever else he was, or had ever been, he had enjoyed teaching. Without thinking, he said, "What did you have in mind, Minerva?"

He was not looking at her, so he missed the satisfied gleam in her eye. "Professor Slughorn will not be returning as potions professor, as he had originally agreed to return for just one year, and it has been two…" she began.

"I told you, Minerva, I am not interested in being Head of Slytherin."

She eyed him beadily. "They are _not_ intertwined, Severus."

He looked at her blankly. He had not thought of that. After several moments, he slowly exhaled.

"…I… I will consider it."

She nodded. "I will want your decision by Friday, Severus. And I expect to see you at the end of year feast."

He shut his eyes on that.

"That's my final word, Severus. See that you are there."

He jerked a shoulder, then nodded reluctantly. Satisfied, she stood up to go.

"… Thank you, Minerva," he whispered, staring – unseeing – at the floor.

Eyes bright with sudden moisture, she nodded, patted him on the shoulder, and left. The pressure in his chest let up – just a bit.

_ Friday._ He sighed.

Friday saw him packing up things he had managed to accumulate during his stay in the infirmary. Journals, rolls of parchment, and scant bits of clothing – which hung off of him loosely now – sat in neat piles on his bed waiting for him to pack them – by hand – into a travel bag, though he still had not made up his mind where he would go when he left. The books Potter had been reading lay untouched at the back of the bedside table. His wand, unused, lay in front of them.

He was still thin – _gaunt_ Minerva told him – but he had had enough of the infirmary, enough of the lack of privacy, vulnerable to any visitor who took it upon themselves to intrude on his solitude… enough of the near-daily demands of the Wizengamot or the Ministry for his personal testimony – the Death Eaters, the Snatchers, things he himself had done or not done under Voldemort's reign.

He was tired. He was beyond tired. The constant trials and testimony triggered nearly nightly nightmares from which he woke, sweating, shaking, calling out – often for Potter, or _at_ Potter, or _on behalf of_ Potter… often for Charity Burbage… often for Neville Longbottom. Nagini's poison still made it nearly impossible for him to keep down his meals.

He had taken to casting a Muffliato on the door to Poppy's living quarters so that she would not hear his nightly cries of terror and loss, or the sound of him retching dryly in his bed or vomiting up his dinner… so that she would simply let him go, release him from the ward so that he could return… _where? Not _Spinner's End_._

That was what he and McGonagall were arguing about now, in fact. She was still after him to resume his post as Headmaster, or to return as Head of Slytherin. He was adamant in his refusal. And though he had not exactly fought with her about it, today he had reached the end of his patience, the end of his energy.

"Minerva, I will do anything else you want," he said, exhaustion evident in his voice, "… take any post you desire, if you truly wish me to remain – but those. If you continue to insist…" He hesitated, but he had thought this through very carefully. "I _shall_ leave the school."

She stopped at that, and threw him the strangest look. He could not decipher it. _I must be out of practice. _It was almost… satisfaction. _Did she __want__ him to leave the school, despite what she had said earlier in the week? Well… he could not blame her for that._

He continued his packing.

"_Any _post, Severus?" she said quietly.

He stopped, two white, high-necked shirts halfway into his bag, and narrowed his eyes at her. He set the shirts down, moved the bag aside, turned, and leaned back against the bed, arms folded across his chest. "What exactly did you have in mind, Minerva – assistant to Filch?" he said dryly.

"Your word, Severus."

He flinched, then stared at her.

She did not budge. He sighed, gave a sharp nod. "My word, Headmistress."

She stood, and turned to make her way out the door.

"Fine," she said. "The house elves have prepared your rooms in Gryffindor Tower."

He blinked. _I beg your pardon?_

"Minerva… wait… _what_?"

"Gryffindor is in need of a new Head of House, Severus, as your resignation has, as you will notice, resulted in that position being empty. The faculty has determined that you will do admirably. And I must say, I quite agree. Term begins September first. I shall expect you mid-August, unless you care to spend the summer here." She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, turned and smiled gently. "Welcome to Gryffindor, Mr. Snape. I know you will be a credit to your House."

It was fortunate – very fortunate – that he was already leaning on something, because suddenly he could not stand. He felt behind him blindly and fell back onto the bed… where he stayed for several minutes after the door clicked shut behind her, struggling to master the tears threatening his self-control.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, reasonably composed, he made his way to the Great Hall. He had waited until he could be certain the feast had begun, thinking to slip in from behind the dais, unnoticed. Poppy had preceded him some fifteen minutes earlier, after he'd insisted, emphatically, on making his way to the Great Hall independently.

He stepped out of the infirmary and stopped to take a measured look around. The fourth floor looked much as it had before the battle, though rather cleaner than usual. The castle as a whole had a lighter, crisper look about it, not yet warmed by use and wear. He was not sure he liked it. He was certainly not comfortable in it. He straightened his shoulders and took a steadying breath. Placing a hand on the baluster to assure his still-uncertain balance, he made his way down through the dust of construction that clearly was still ongoing, though most of the remaining damage was superficial now, to the faculty entrance to the Hall.

"Good evening, Professor, it's so good to see you," said a voice materializing to his right, and he looked down to see Sir Nicholas disconcertingly hovering half-way through the marble staircase.

He nodded hesitantly. _I wish he wouldn't do that!_

"And welcome to Gryffindor, Professor. I always said you would have made a good Gryffindor. As a matter of fact, I was just commenting to the Bloody Baron…"

Snape halted, closed his eyes, and opened them to glare at the ghost. "Nicholas… _please..."_

Sir Nicholas had the grace to look abashed. "Of course, Professor. I beg your pardon." He then swept ahead of Snape down the staircase, presumably into the Great Hall. Snape sighed. He was _not_ ready for this.

By the time he reached the second floor, a rumble of voices reached his ears. He skirted the main doors to the Hall to make his way to the rear, where the faculty often entered to the left of the head table. Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and slipped through, pausing behind the huge tapestry that hung behind the dais.

The Hall blazed in the brilliant light of hundreds of floating candles. Its enchanted ceiling reflected the clear night and a thousand pinpricks that were the late June stars. No House colors dominated: there would be no House Cup awarded this year. He looked at the student tables and counted. A mere sixteen students sat at the Slytherin table – though they were deep in apparently friendly conversation with those at the Ravenclaw table just across the aisle. Ravenclaw was three-quarters full, Hufflepuff roughly two thirds, but the Gryffindor table was completely filled. Some sitting at each table – other than Slytherin – appeared to be family members, rather than students themselves. He wondered which of the missing students had gone home… and which were among the _fifty-four. _He had not yet gathered the courage to ask McGonagall about that.

It occurred to him that he did not know where to sit. He had taken the Headmaster's seat throughout this past year, but – thank Merlin and all the gods – Minerva would be sitting there now. His place as Head of Slytherin had been two seats to Dumbledore's left. Slughorn should be there tonight, as outgoing Head of Slytherin. McGonagall had always sat immediately to Dumbledore's right, the traditional position for the Head of the House to which the sitting headmaster or headmistress had belonged.

Half hidden by the edge of the tapestry, he counted places. _Trelawney… check. Firenze… check. _Though…_ that was interesting. Vector… check. Hagrid… Flitwick… check. A blank space. _His eyes skirted past McGonagall to_ Sprout… check. Slughorn… check. Sinistra… check. Poppy. Binns… at dinner?... check… An empty space where the second of the Carrows had sat during the year. _He controlled a shiver.

His eyes came back to the center of the table. He had two choices. He could walk the entire length of the table and take up the place where Amicus Carrow had sat – a thought which turned his stomach for more than one reason – or he could take the seat at McGonagall's right. _Damn the woman. _He took a breath.

Squaring his shoulders and tugging at his waistcoat, which refused to cooperate, as it was now a size or more too big for him, he stepped behind Trelawney, skirted Firenze and Hagrid's larger bulks by pressing into the tapestry, slipped behind Flitwick, and slid silently into the chair at McGonagall's side. She looked at him, eyes sparkling moistly, and patted his hand. _Would she never stop patting him? _Flitwick turned his face up to say something to him, his brown eyes warm with welcome. The buzz of conversation picked up for a moment, then the Hall gradually grew silent.

Then someone at the Gryffindor table – Seamus Finnigan, he rather thought, though he couldn't be sure – shouted, "_YES! We've got SNAPE!"_ and a roar went up throughout the room. He looked up with bewildered, suddenly blurred eyes, to find the students of all four Houses – and the faculty – on their feet, pounding their hands together. But he had eyes for only one person at the Gryffindor table – Potter, who sat frozen between the tearful Hermione Granger and the whooping Neville Longbottom, stunned, as his Housemates cheered their new Head of House.

He was _definitely _not ready for this.

* * *

_That was Chapter 8 of 30. To be continued..._


	10. Summer School

Disclaimer: Not mine, darn it! Not my people... though I love to pretend Sev is mine... and not my universe, though I love to live there. No. They belong to Queen Rowling, as you all know.

I hunger. I thirst. FEEDback. Thank you very much.

* * *

CHAPTER NINE

SUMMER SCHOOL

Late the next morning, Snape made his way toward McGonagall's – _his_ – quarters in Gryffindor Tower. The train had left at eleven, bearing the rest of the student body back to Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross Station. Breakfast, like dinner the night before, had been an ordeal. His stomach was unused to accepting food – at least not without emptying itself immediately afterward. And his head was not used to the babble and scrape of the Great Hall, which had, in any case, been all but silent this past year. He was strangely unused to conversation. For the past year, nearly everyone had avoided him as if he had a particularly contagious case of spattergroit. The only faculty members who _had_ talked with him, without him addressing them directly, were Voldemort's minions the Carrows, and occasionally Horace Slughorn. He simply was not used to being included… not used to being welcomed… and definitely not used to being… liked. He did not quite know how to handle it… did not quite know, yet, who he was anymore, he realized.

His discomfort was made worse by Potter's apparently still-stunned reaction to Snape being named Gryffindor Head of House. Snape had bent his head to respond to Flitwick's conversation, or leaned across to appear to listen to Firenze and Trelawney, but his eyes were repeatedly drawn to Potter's dark head, most often turned – pointedly, he was beginning to think – away from the head table.

As he was Head of her House, McGonagall had the right to Snape's assistance in getting the students organized for the ride home. Though she had offered to excuse him from that duty, in light of his continued weakness, he refused her offer to have Sprout stand in, and stood watch as the students left the castle and climbed into the Thestral-drawn carriages for the ride to the Hogwarts station, pondering the boy.

Somehow, he missed seeing Potter board the carriages. He supposed the boy would spend the summer with the Weasleys. He could not possibly have chosen to return to the hell he had lived in at Privet Drive. Or perhaps he had gone off to Grimmauld Place. _But… that would be dangerous. Had the Order checked it for traps and curses? _His stomach clenched, then he sighed and tried the relaxation exercise Poppy insisted he use. _I'll mention it to Arthur… send an owl… or get Minerva to do it…_

Potter's reaction to Snape's new position should not have mattered. The boy would turn eighteen this summer. Had he completed this term, he would have graduated with, no doubt, a respectable number of NEWTs to his record, and gone on to whatever career path his marks entitled him to pursue. As it was, he was under no obligation to complete any education beyond OWLs, two years prior, even were it not for the events of the past year.

Snape sighed. It should not matter. It did not matter.

_ If I say that often enough, I might even come to believe it._

As for himself, he had already decided not to return to Spinner's End. The thought of returning there – Peter Pettigrew's lack of hygiene… Narcissa's and Bella's perfume… the lies that had been told there… the lies he had lived there – turned his stomach sour. He could not go back… would not. There was nothing for him there but his books, and those could be replaced. He would send to a wizard solicitor in London, asking him to see to the disposal of his things and the sale of the house. It could burn, for all he cared. He would spend the summer at the school… see if he could wrap his mind around being Head of Gryffindor House.

He arrived at the door to his rooms, uttered a password, and entered. Nothing of McGonagall remained. She had packed her things up the day before, leaving the house elves to clean what was left after she tidied up, confident she would be able to corner him into accepting the post. She would have had to pack up anyway. The headmaster or headmistress needed to be in that particular space where they would have the constant advice and counsel of the former holders of that office. He shook his head. Not him. Not anymore. He'd never be in that room again, if he could help it.

Although Minerva's study was not in the damp dungeons that he had occupied as the Head of Slytherin, and although summer was clearly around the corner, the castle remained cool, as it did year round. Some attentive house elf had already set the fire ablaze, and the rooms were cozy but not yet furnished. He rejected the idea of merely bringing up furnishings from Slytherin. They belonged in the dungeon. In any case, Slughorn still occupied those rooms, not yet ready to head home, as faculty had some end-of-term business, particularly this year. And… he found he did not want those furnishings, tied as they were to another life. He needed no reminders of that.

He was contemplating something else, something simple, spare, less bulky, leaner, ideas forming in his mind as he walked around the lighter, warmer space that formed the base of Gryffindor Tower, when there was a knock at the door – Minerva, no doubt, come to see how he was doing. She could have walked in – he had not yet had time to change the password – but he appreciated the courtesy.

"Come," he called, and turned to greet her.

"Potter?" He froze a moment, confused. Automatically, it seemed, he started sorting through the possible threats. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you on the train? What's wrong?" he demanded, his heart beginning to race.

"Professor," the boy said, not looking at him.

"I asked you a question, Potter. Why are you here?" His mind was repeatedly drawing blanks.

Potter directed his answer to the region somewhere around Snape's chest. "Professor McGonagall… the Headmistress… told me I had to notify my Head of House that I would be staying in my dorm this summer… in Gryffindor."

_ He what?_

"… I'm sorry, Potter… I don't understand. Why are you not going home… or to the Weasley's?"

The boy looked away. "I… I don't have a home to go to, sir."

He frowned and shook his head. "… Potter… did you not inherit Black's… your godfather's house?"

"Yes. Sir. But the Order does not think it's safe for me to go there, Sir. Not yet. And I… I don't want to be there alone."

_ I can understand that. He shouldn't be alone. What imbecile…? _He drew a breath.

The boy was looking down at his hands, fiddling with some kind of vial. Snape just shook his head. "Did the Weasleys not invite you to stay?" he asked, honestly confused. He didn't understand. _How could they have left the boy here?_ He felt himself getting angry.

Potter sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. _That_ Snape understood. He felt much like doing the same. The boy moved absently toward the fireplace, placed the vial on the mantle, and turned toward him without really looking at him.

"I…" He shook his head… "I… it's just… I can't. I can't, Professor. I can't." And Snape… got it. _Fred_. He got that. He swallowed.

"I see, Potter. Very well. You will be in Gryffindor Tower for the summer." He stopped. "Is there anything else?"

There was silence for perhaps all of ten seconds – Snape counted. "No, sir," the boy said, and turned to go.

"Potter."

"Yes, sir?" The boy turned back toward him, his eyes flicking up and then away.

"Your vial."

The boy finally looked him in the eyes, his own eyes red-rimmed. "It's yours, Professor," he said quietly, and left. Snape turned to look at the small, corked vial, in which silver memories swirled.

"He does not go to the Hall for meals."

"No more do you, Severus."

"I have my reasons, Minerva."

"And what _are_ those reasons, Severus?"

He _had_ reasons. He was still having trouble keeping his meals down, for one thing. He was still waking up in a cold sweat every night, nightmares making him retch and shake. He woke up exhausted, late, needing the bathroom, needing to scrub himself clean of it, needing… something. Sometimes he thought he just needed to scream. He was unused, still, to talking with his colleagues, their looks of pity or understanding confusing him, giving him a headache… or a heartache… or both. They looked upon him as a hero… and that made him nauseous, since he knew the bitter truth.

He avoided Trelawney, because she had taken to predicting long life and love, and he knew neither was likely; he was too damaged in body and soul for that. He avoided Firenze, because the centaur was equally likely to prognosticate, and less likely to make sense… _not that Trelawney made sense.._. He avoided Flitwick's warm eyes, and Sinistra's calculating ones, and Hagrid's moist ones. He sought Sprout out for plant clippings or oils, but fled when she turned her own large, warm eyes on him, patted his arm, and said, "Severus…"

He did not want to talk about it. Any of it. He did not know _how_ to talk about it. He was only comfortable with Minerva, joining her for tea in the staff room, and whenever she wanted to talk about Potter, or the battle, or Dumbledore, or Voldemort, he made his excuses and fled back to his quarters.

In the past week, he had slowly begun furnishing his rooms, outfitting one as a potions lab where he could work privately, another as his sitting room, another as a bedroom. A fourth room was empty. He thought it might serve as an extended library, if he was there long enough to build up enough books to fill it.

The shelves flanking the fireplace and lining one wall in the sitting room were empty, save for the three books Potter had piled on the nightstand in the infirmary, and two or three recent issues of _Practical Potions_ and _Potions: Theory and Practice_. His library was still in the Headmaster's office. He had pulled a soft green sofa, long enough for his lanky form and with a pillowed arm at each end, to face the fireplace, flanked by two equally cozy chairs upholstered in a muted green, gold and red tartan, a tribute to the Headmistress, the three atop a simple braided rug. A number of empty, small round tables were scattered throughout the room, awaiting vials or bottles of brew or teaching aids. A clean mahogany desk, Gryffindor's lion carved into the fronts of its matched-panel drawers, faced out into the room, along the right-hand wall. A desk chair with lion's-paw feet, its gold cushioned seat soft on his still-sore, still-thin thighs and buttocks, stood behind it.

His bedroom was Spartan. He slept in a large four-poster bed, its hangings Gryffindor red and gold now. He found them comforting, warmer, somehow, than the cool silver and green he had slept in for all but four of the past twenty seven years, save the summers at Spinner's End, where his furnishings were dark wood, upholstered in nearly unbroken black. A wardrobe held the few clothes he had brought from the infirmary – three white shirts, one set of robes, and a second pair of black pants, none of which fit his emaciated frame, making him look rather like Lupin, he thought, wondering when he would see the werewolf. A trunk sat empty at the foot of his bed. A nightstand held a lamp. The vial Potter had left on the mantle in the sitting room sat at the right side of the mantle in the bedroom now. Snape had placed it, and left it there. _Another thing to avoid._

The lab, to the left and back of the sitting room, was equally empty. One entire wall would hold his apothecary drawers, filled with a combination of ordinary and rare or dangerous ingredients, access to the latter of which he had always strictly controlled. _Polyjuice potion… Veritaserum… _On another wall, graduated shelves awaited multiple sizes of cauldrons, burners, and various containers for potions, ointments, and other concoctions, as well as colanders, mortise and pestle sets, burners, eye droppers, measuring cups and spoons, and various knives and skewers. The small fireplace here was empty, as yet unused. He was not yet up to cooking meals for himself, as he sometimes did in the dungeons.

The empty shelves and surfaces reflected Snape's own emptiness and uncertainty. _Who am I?_ He did not know anymore, and so he did not know how to fill the empty spaces.

He needed his books and potion-making supplies, though. The books included his extensive personal notes and annotations, serving as the basis for much of his teaching, as well as his research. His equipment was the professional accumulation of the last sixteen years, some expensive, some used only by specialists, some simply decorative or indulgent. But he had not been able to get himself to fetch them, excusing himself to McGonagall by saying he had nowhere, yet, to put them. That was no longer true, and he knew he could not delay much longer. But he could not get himself to walk through those doors, knowing the portrait that hung behind the desk would be watching as he packed books and supplies into trunks or boxes for the trip down to Gryffindor's base.

Still not ready to face that, he decided that he would go for a walk on the grounds, to build up the strength in his still-weak legs and improve his stamina. Minerva was meeting with Trelawny, Sinistra, Hagrid, and the other non-Head-of-House faculty before they headed off for the summer. Most of them would leave the next day. Hagrid was planning to head with Grawp to France to visit Madame Maxime. Heads of Houses would remain a while longer, reviewing the year. Usually, they would spend this time signing certificates of completion for seventh years, reviewing dorm assignments while personality conflicts and needs were still fresh in their minds, and essentially "decommissioning" their houses, leaving lists of things for the house elves and the Magical Maintenance department of the Ministry to attend to in the following eight weeks. But that meeting was tomorrow.

Snape directed his feet through the halls of the school, nodding from time to time, to portraits, and noted that Sir Cadogan had taken up residence in a portrait on the landing between the first and second floors. The clumsy, if chivalrous, knight was guarding the entrance rather than the seventh floor. He shouted, "Greetings, fine sir!" as Snape passed, but was too busy trying to tug his shield from the grass, where it appeared to be firmly stuck, to notice that Snape did not respond. Snape headed down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and out the newly-repaired doors at the main entrance. The day was sunny, not yet warm. He stopped at the top of the great stone stairway, also repaired, and looked over the immediate lawns toward the Forbidden Forest.

Flashes of Potter in the acromantulas' hollow, falling at Voldemort's feet… no, Hagrid's… no Narcissa's… cramped his stomach and he turned away. Around the castle to his left, down the steep hill, was the Black Lake, and on its shore, Dumbledore's tomb. Unexpectedly, it was surrounded by other small white headstones in neat rows.

_ Fifty-four._

The sight nearly made his knees buckle. Unidentifiable at this distance, someone was walking among the stones, stopping from time to time to lay a hand on one of them, head bowed - someone in Gryffindor's red and gold scarf, student robes, and dark hair. Arrested by the sight, Snape stood watching until Potter turned away and headed back to the castle. Then he fled back to his rooms, where he sat by the fire, head in his hands, wondering _what the hell_ he was doing as Gryffindor's Head of House.

The Heads of House met in an extended breakfast the next morning. They ate at Gryffindor's table rather than the head table, to facilitate the discussion. Trelawny, who had not left the school in over eighteen years, and Hagrid, his huge bag packed for his trip, also attended. Potter, as usual, was not present. Snape sent word to the kitchens to be sure the house elves had sent up breakfast for the boy. Confirmation was delivered to his place as the breakfast meeting was ending.

Minerva stopped Snape as the others got up to walk out the huge doors at the Hall's entrance, chatting about their various duties and summer plans.

"You'll need to check the dorms in the tower, Severus. All seven years."

"Of course, Headmistress."

"The password is _ashwagandha_," she said.

He stood quite still. "… Thank you, Minerva."

"And the password to my office is 'scarlet tartan'..."

He nodded, barely listening. _Ashwagandha._

She touched his arm. "… I expect you to use it, Severus."

He hesitated and she sniffed. "I will, Headmistress."

She patted his arm. "See that you do, Severus; I need my shelves."

He nodded again, tucking both passwords into that particular space in his brain he had reserved for the frequently-changing information.

This morning, however, he had other business. He turned right out of the Great Hall and headed out the main entrance and down the great steps. Turning to the left, he skirted the castle, his steps measured and determined. _It's about damned time I start acting like a Gryffindor._

He slowed as he neared the collection of gravestones, his mind automatically counting the three rows to each side of Dumbledore's tomb, nine headstones in each row. _All fifty four, then. _His chest tightened, imagining the services that must have been held while he was unconscious in the hospital wing. Arthur, Molly and their children, surely accompanied by Miss Granger, Mr. Longbottom and other members of Gryffindor House, must have come here, laying Fred to rest. His heart beat faster at the thought of it, but he was determined to find the boy's marker, pay his respects, and send word to Molly and Arthur.

The first stone rocked him back on his feet. _Colin Creevy. He was underage. There would have been no way to get the students out of the school… But they should have been sent to the dungeons or the kitchens… anywhere to keep them out of danger. How many underage students lay here? What had the boy's parents thought as they laid him to rest? One more boy he could not save._

The next marker bore a single name – a house elf, and the inscription under the name _For the School She Loved – _shook him more, somehow, than Colin's death. _How? How had the House Elves…? Had Minerva ordered them to fight? Surely not… though… wouldn't __he__ have done so, in her place? To save the school? To save the students? What price would he have been willing to pay? To have others pay?_

The next grave was a student from Ravenclaw, a sixth year. He remembered the girl's brilliant mind, a paper she had written that he'd urged her to submit for publication. He couldn't remember if she had done so – but that brilliant promise was snuffed out now.

And so it went. He walked from tomb to tomb, and each one hit him like a blow. Townspeople from Hogsmeade… one of Rosmerta's bartenders… a bookseller… He could not make out an order. They were not arranged by house, or whether they were students, family members, or townspeople, or alphabetically, or even by species. And gradually he realized it must have been a deliberate choice – to make all the fallen equal to each other, each defender's sacrifice equal to every other's.

And then he found Fred, in the last row, and the inscription stole his breath, tore a sob from his tightened throat.

_Fred Weasley  
1 April 1978 – 2 May 1998  
Beloved Son and Brother  
Dumbledore's Army  
Order of the Phoenix  
~ Mischief Managed ~_

He stood and let the tears run down his face, not bothering to wipe them away. He cried for George, and for Arthur and Molly, and for the rest of the Weasleys, and for Potter. And then, when he could take no more, he thought, he turned to the final two graves, and stumbled back, hitting the stone behind him and slid to the ground, too stunned, at first, to do anything, even breathe. And then his wail of despair and loss and grief and guilt echoed from the Black Lake to the Forbidden Forest, causing the flock of Thestrals to rise in alarm.

_Remus Lupin  
10 March 1960 – 2 May 1998  
Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor  
Order of the Phoenix  
Beloved Husband and Father  
Rest in Peace, Dear Friend_

He barely took in Nymphadora's grave next to Remus', identically carved, the inscription below her name reading in part, _Beloved Wife and Mother…_ _The Greatest Magic Is Love._

Two sets of eyes watched as Snape came to grips with it.

From the window high in the tower, Minerva McGonagall stood, one tear tracing a path down her face, holding a tartan pocket square to her lips. She knew he had to do this, that it would have been soon, if not today. Her heart ached for him.

"He'll cope, Minerva," came a soft voice from behind her. "He's strong. He's coped with worse."

"Yes, Albus. I know."

She watched until the crumpled figure stood, fought to gain balance, hung his head for long minutes, then turned, shoulders bowed, and headed back to the castle.

Harry sat in the window seat in his room in Gryffindor Tower, where his eleven year old self had sat stroking Hedwig, unable to believe the change in his life, his first night at the school. The memory made his throat tighten with unshed tears, so that breathing took deliberate effort. _Dobby… Shell Cottage_… He thought he preferred that wild beauty to the ordered neatness of the stones on the shore of the Black Lake, but he understood the impulse that had led the Ministry and the families of the defenders of Hogwarts to lay their loved ones to rest here – together, as they had fought and died together to save the school, and each other, and all of wizard- and Mugglekind from the greatest evil the wizarding world had ever known. Still_, maybe Fred would have been happier near Bill and Fleur and Dobby… or out back at the Burrow._

He missed them. He missed every one of the people buried beneath the stones, whether he had known them or not. But mostly he missed the Burrow, and the Weasleys, and the comfort of Ron, Hermione and Ginny's arms. He missed Molly taking his face in her hands and studying him, Arthur's arm around his shoulders as he turned Harry away to walk and talk. He missed Fred and George's sudden appearances and the explosions of laughter that filled any room with them in it. He missed Lupin's quiet voice and Tonks' fierce, gentle love for the man… He thought the pain of how much he missed them would cause his heart to stop beating – and he would have welcomed it, but for the loss of the living… the loss of Ron and Hermione and Ginny… and the fact that he had still not returned the wand, waiting for the school to empty.

He kept going around it, feeling torn between the living and the dead, missing them all, watching Snape's progress through the grave yard as he approached the last three stones under which lay the bodies – but not the souls – of people he loved. And his tears mingled with Snape's anguished cry, seen but not heard at this distance, and he saw Snape collapse, and knew he was ruing, yet again, the choice he had made long ago, and his inability to protect those that he, too, Harry knew now, had loved and lost.

And despite the distance, despite their lack of contact over the last week or more, he had never felt closer to the professor than he did at that moment, their shared loss and guilt binding them irrevocably in their grief for those they both loved.

Hollow-eyed, Snape took himself down to breakfast the next morning. He had not vomited. Had not screamed himself awake. Had not woken, sweating from a nightmare. He had sat by the dying fire, unseeing except for the lines of tombstones surrounding Dumbledore's grave, that one loss irrelevant in the magnitude of the losses the school's students, the nearby town, and the wizarding world had suffered.

He was not so vain a man as to think that this was all his fault… that he should have been able to prevent this. Voldemort had risen to disastrous power even before Snape had joined his ranks, and there would have been a confrontation somewhere, somehow, at some point. It was inevitable. Such was the way of tyranny. He knew enough of the world to know that.

But that it should have been _this_ battleground, _this_ cost… _these_ deaths. For that, he felt, he _could_ be blamed. Else, Voldemort would not have targeted a child, would not have sought the boy out at the school… Else the boy would not have been at risk, seeking comfort, aid, perhaps an answer, drawing the battle to the school. Else, Lily and James' son would have grown to a man, perhaps, before the whole thing came to a head, the battle taking place between adults, far from children… on a battleground of the Order's choosing, perhaps. Else Lupin and Tonks would have lived to raise their son… and George would still have his brother, his shadow, his partner in mischief and creativity.

Or – there might not have been a battle. A stealthy, select group of Aurors or members of the Order might have been able to find and exploit a flaw, take down the dark wizard in a coordinated action with no collateral damage.

_ But when?_ logic argued. _How long before that could have happened? How many other witches and wizards and Muggles and house elves would have died in the meantime, as Voldemort and his minions grew in power, extending their deadly reign?_

And there was Dumbledore to consider – always in the thick of the plot, the most powerful, most brilliant wizard of the age, working for Voldemort's downfall. _Might the battle have been drawn to the school, at devastating cost, anyway?_ His mind quailed at the thought of a battle between the two wizards on Hogwarts grounds. The castle, the town, the whole countryside could have been destroyed, if the epic battle between Dumbledore and Gellert Grindlewald was any indication.

Grindlewald… whose wand Dumbledore had won… whose wand Voldemort had fingered, frustrated that it did not respond as he had expected, believing that it possessed extraordinary magic on its own, torn from the dead hands of his enemy.

He shook his head. _Voldemort should have known better… the power was always in the wizard, not the wand._

He pondered it the night through, his head throbbing with it, tears occasionally finding their way down his angular face, trying to sort out his fault, and Dumbledore's, and Voldemort's, and even Minerva's… trying to balance fate and free will, the extent to which he was at fault, the extent to which he had been a pawn in the struggle between Voldemort and Dumbledore, the extent to which it would have happened anyway – to someone else's child, if not to Potter, Voldemort's drive for absolute power dragging the world to the brink of destruction despite the best efforts and intentions of good people – _Fred… Arthur… Lupin…_ – alive and dead.

The room grew lighter, and he had not solved it, though he came to accept the grief of it, letting it settle over him, the people he had lost, the people he could not protect, the people who were living, with his grief nothing compared to theirs.

As the sun rose, he walked to his bedroom, stripped out of his wrinkled clothes, and bathed – not to wash it away – _as if he could do that _– but out of respect. Then he dressed, and walked to the Great Hall to join his colleagues and his Headmistress… to try to move amongst the living, though he carried the dead in his heart.

It took every last bit of his strength.

He felt Minerva's eyes on his as he entered, somehow knew that she had seen. She made to stand up, to comfort him, but if she did, he knew he would come completely undone, so he shook his head at her as she took his hand and squeezed it, and murmured, "Headmistress… please… I'm fine."

Lighter footsteps entered, and he looked up to see Potter enter the Hall. His eyes darkened, and his heart nearly broke for the boy as he watched him walk to the table. Potter uttered a quiet "Good morning, professors. May I join you?" Pomona Sprout pulled out a chair next to her, sitting Potter down kindly. When Flitwick went to pull out a chair to sit on the boy's other side, Snape intercepted the man's hand, gestured him away with a lift of his chin, and seated himself at the boy's side.

"Potter," he murmured in greeting.

"Professor," the boy responded.

He forced himself to focus on… porridge… reaching across the boy to snag it from under Trelawney's nose, spooning some into the boy's dish, and pulling the bowl of honey over, to drip some from the dipper onto the mash.

"Eat your breakfast," he murmured.

The boy shot him a quick look, then looked away.

"I will if you will, Professor," he said into the bowl in front of him.

Snape paused in the act of pushing the porridge back to the center of the table, and turned a baleful eye on the boy. "None of your cheek, Potter," he growled softly into the boy's ear. "I expect more respect as your Head of House."

The boy smiled – just slightly – into his porridge, and lifted a spoon to his mouth. _I should really follow suit, _Snape thought, and did so.

They made a bit of a routine of it. Each morning, the remaining faculty would gather, gradually waking up over a lazy breakfast. Potter joined them daily, responsive to Snape's growled commands that he, "Eat, boy! You look like a bowtruckle!" Whenever Snape commented on his thinness, Potter snorted and shook his head. When Snape turned to respond to Minerva or Flitwick or Firenze, who joined them occasionally despite his reintegration into his herd, he'd catch Potter, out of the corner of his eye, slipping sausage or bacon onto his plate. He ate it without comment, hooded eyes well aware of the amused glances of the faculty and Potter's barely concealed smirk.

After breakfast, one faculty member or another would request Potter's assistance with some task, conspiring to keep the boy company and keep him busy. Sprout had him replant Mandrakes, from which he returned to the castle filthy and sweaty, cursing up a storm – which Filch ignored save for chasing after him with a broom muttering imprecations about "muddying up my flagstone…" – and nursing a bitten, bloody finger, which Snape treated with disinfectant and essence of dittany, over the boy's protests.

McGonagall met with Potter every few days. Though Potter never said what they discussed, he always looked more settled afterward, Snape noted. For that matter, _he_ felt more settled after his staff room discussions with Minerva, as well, clarifying his teaching assignment for the next term, discussing candidates for Prefect as well as Head Boy and Head Girl of the school, the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and Gryffindor traditions. He was starting to wrap his mind around it.

"My shelves, Severus – please," she would say at the end of their meetings, but he kept putting it off.

In the evenings, the table was emptier still, as many of the faculty took their evening meals at Rosmerta's or with friends in town. One by one, they wrapped up their duties and left, to travel or return to their summer residences and their families. Binns had usually fallen asleep by the evening meal. Whatever faculty members remained, accompanied occasionally by one or more of the castle's ghosts or Peeves – until Minerva banned him for shooting peas up Trelawney's nose – would draw out the evening meal until full dark, planning the next term or simply chatting about events in the world outside Hogwarts.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been confirmed Minister of Magic, and was struggling to clean up the Ministry after the last, utterly disastrous few years. Umbridge (Potter's hand twitched when she was discussed.) had been discovered sneaking out of the Ministry with documents implicating her in manufacturing evidence against her personal enemies – of which there was quite a long list. She was to undergo trial in late July. Gringotts had sent a bill to the Ministry for repairs – Snape noted Potter's discomfort at that. – and the Ministry had sent someone to discuss the matter. McGonagall had been amused to receive an owl from Gringotts demanding the return of the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, now hanging in her office, Neville having left it in her keeping. She'd responded that, as the Sword could present itself to whomever it wished, it had evidently chosen to remain at Hogwarts. That had sparked an interesting dinner debate as to whether the Sword and the Sorting Hat should be considered beasts, beings with rights and legal protection, or simply extraordinarily unique charmed objects.

Potter evidently found the faculty discussions fascinating, and gradually began offering observations and comments of his own, rather than sitting in wide-eyed silence. Snape found himself relaxing as well, as his colleagues continued to respond to him warmly and acceptingly, so that, rather sooner than he would ever have expected, he felt comfortable in the camaraderie.

Potter missed his friends, though, Snape could tell. He thought the boy needed the companionship of others his age, especially his best friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, and he continued to wonder, with increasing irritation, why in the name of Merlin the Weasleys didn't simply come fetch the boy. He knew Potter got owl posts, and assumed they were from his friends. He'd seen the boy head to the Owlery, so he must have been sending posts out as well. _What is keeping the boy here? _he wondered.

"Potter," he said as they got up to leave the Hall after dinner one evening, to head back to Gryffindor Tower. "Have you heard from the Weasleys?"

"Oh – yes, Professor," the boy said as he tried to match Snape's long stride. Without thinking, Snape shortened his step and the two found a compatible rhythm. "Ginny… and Hermione – they write every other day. And Ron – well, he's not much of a writer," Potter laughed, undisturbed. "And he's busy helping George, but he sends me stuff from the store. Want to see?" He grinned up at Snape.

Snape tried, unsuccessfully, to scowl, then gave it up. "After breakfast, Potter. Else I'll have nightmares – no doubt of my wand turning into a chicken."

Potter laughed and looked at Snape inquiringly.

"Molly," Snape clarified. "Said she was forever finding her wand turning into a chicken when she cooked."

The boy laughed again, clearly remembering some such incident.

"Why don't you go visit them?" Snape prompted.

"Oh – Professor… I have some things to do here yet," the boy said, clearly evading something.

"Anything I can help with?" Snape offered offhandedly, watching Potter out of the corner of his eye as they walked.

He saw the boy actually consider it, and relaxed. _Not too bad, then._

"No," Potter said after a few moments reflection. "Thanks, Professor, but this is something I need to do myself."

They had arrived at the base of the Tower and the door to Snape's quarters. He put his hand on the doorknob and the boy turned toward the stairs. "Potter." The boy turned back, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. "If you need anything… you have only to ask."

Potter, caught off guard, was silent a long moment. "Thanks, Professor," he said at last, in a quizzical tone. "See you at breakfast."

Snape nodded. "Sleep well."

Potter snorted and headed up the stairs.

He knew the boy was still having nightmares. Some mornings, Potter arrived at breakfast with dark circles under his eyes, his face haggard. Snape had considered him with alarm at one such appearance then, following breakfast, headed off to the apothecary in Hogsmeade, returning with a bag of potion-making supplies, and set to work in the infirmary's lab. The next time the boy dragged listlessly to his morning meal, he had pulled a small crystal vial from his robe, held it under the table one-handed, and flipped it open with his thumb. While the boy was distracted passing a dish to the Headmistress, he'd slipped a drop of concentrated, ruby-colored restorative into Potter's pumpkin juice. "Drink this," he'd ordered, planting the mug in front of the boy's face. If the boy saw him dose the drink, he gave no sign, though Minerva nodded her head to Snape gratefully, her eyes warm with concern for the boy.

Snape's own nightmares continued, though they were gradually decreasing in intensity and frequency. He had slept one whole night through, two nights past, without once waking up to retch miserably over the washbasin. He wakened to his own screams less frequently. He kept a Muffliato on his door, though, on the off chance someone – Nick, perhaps – would happen by in the middle of one of his nightly terrors. Most often, he lay trapped in a kind of _Arresto Momentum _replay of the scenes he had seen in Hagrid's mind. Voldemort stalked his dreams other nights, Snape's own final confrontation with the mad wizard blending distortedly with other images – Lucius looking defeated, humiliated time and again at meetings of the Death Eaters in Malfoy Manor; Bellatrix's nauseating perfume and disgusting, fawning displays; Rudolfus' smoldering resentment of her lust for the Dark Lord; Charity Burbage begging _Severus… please…; _Ollivander's tortured screams…

Which particular bit brought him awake, crying out in terror or curled around his burning stomach, varied. All made his intestines turn to water. All made him hope to bloody hell that it was really, truly over, and that thought – _How could he be sure? – _made him tremble as he rinsed bile from his mouth or sat shaking by the fire in his sitting room, waiting for dawn, when he could reasonably make his way to breakfast and assure himself that Potter was still safe. So though he worried about the boy and the continued absence of his friends, he did not press the issue.

* * *

_This was Chapter 9 of 30. To be continued..._


	11. The Marauder's Map

**Disclaimer: **Jo's People, Jo's Universe. All bow to Queen Rowling. Merlin, what would we have done without her?

This is, of course, done for the love of it, and not for remuneration. Pay me in sweet words of love and consolation.

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

THE MARAUDER'S MAP

One morning, in mid-July, he and Potter found themselves with only Minerva as a breakfast companion. Poppy had finally left the previous week, with the Headmistress' effusive thanks for her exhausting work caring for those injured in the battle, to get some rest and some sun. Flitwick had gone home to his sons. Sinistra was heading to a conference in Egypt, then visiting her mother. Binns would probably sleep until the noise of students roused him on September first. Even the ghosts were scarce, though the Bloody Baron had floated through the corner of the Hall minutes earlier.

"I'll be leaving the two of you alone for a few days," McGonagall said as she stirred honey into her tea. The boy's head, bent over _The Daily Prophet_, came up rather more rapidly than that warranted, Snape thought, and he wondered if the boy would have felt safer with the Headmistress nearby. "Kingsley wants to consult about a number of things." Her eyes twinkled and Snape wondered what the woman was up to. "I shall want my office to myself by the time I return, Severus. _All _to myself. Do I make myself clear?"

_ Ah. _Snape nodded reluctantly. He had to do it eventually. He needed his things to plan next term's lessons, particularly for NEWT level students.

"Potter – see that he does it," Minerva said.

_ The cheek of the woman! _Snape thought, outraged – _mostly_ outraged.

Potter snuck a glance at Snape, grinning. "Yes, Professor."

Snape could practically see the boy's mind whirling, probably planning some trick or thinking of giving Snape detention if he did not comply with McGonagall's order. He growled wordlessly at the boy, whose grin, if anything, widened.

"I'll be back next Thursday, Sev." Then she narrowed her eyes at both of them, her beady look spoiled by a glint of humor. "Try not to burn the place down while I'm away. I am about out of patience with redecorating."

The two wizards laughed.

After breakfast, the boy headed up to his room to some comforting after-meal ritual he had adopted. Snape went to his quarters, and gathered up seven sheets of parchment that held dorm-room checklists. He'd done the girls' dorms yesterday. Today he would tackle the – decidedly more odiferous, he was sure – boy's dorms, which would finish his report duties for end of term. After checking his notes and grabbing a self-inking quill, he headed up the stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room.

"Ashwagandha," he said as he arrived in front of its entrance.

"Bless you!" the Fat Lady replied as she swung open to reveal the round opening. Snape eyed her narrowly, muttered, "You too," and crawled through, wondering, not for the first time, how Minerva had managed.

The Common Room was empty, as he'd expected. Potter was probably up in his room, or perhaps wandering the castle grounds already, as it was so pleasant out. He hadn't asked the boy his plans for the day, it occurred to him. He really should have. Maybe he could get the boy into Hogsmeade, get him to replace his clothes, which were looking both rather ragged and still miles too big on the boy's small frame. Putting it from his mind for now, he made his way to the room that had been occupied by this past term's first years – second years now – working his way methodically though his checklist.

He arrived at the seventh years' room – the one Potter and his mates had occupied since they had arrived at Hogwarts seven years ago – by mid-afternoon. It would be occupied by the coming term's first years, so required the most attention. Potter was not yet back from his wanderings – or at least not in his room. His four-poster was the only one that showed signs of being in use, of course. A knapsack lay on the floor by the bed. A borrowed trunk was locked at the foot, though what possessions Potter could have brought back from being on the run this past year, Snape could not imagine. The trunk probably held his treasures from Weasley's Wizardly Wheezes. He glanced out the window, his eyes seeking out the third white stone from the end in the last row and the two beyond it. The lake sparkled in the sun behind them.

A silver-framed photo of Lily and James stood on Potter's nightstand. Snape picked it up and dusted it off, studying it. The boy really did have his mother's eyes – not that that hadn't been apparent when he had first set eyes on the boy close up, rather than from afar.

The boy had been out and about with his aunt and cousin one day when he was seven. _Merlin, he'd been small! _His cousin had been complaining loudly about something, his fat fist closed around some Muggle child's plaything, whining and demanding Lily's horse-faced Muggle sister, Petunia, buy it for him. Snape had assumed Potter was equally spoiled, equally entitled, despite the reports of Dedalus Diggle, Arabella Figg, and others who kept watch on the boy. Snape was a last-minute substitute for the Squib, who had tripped over a cat and was off her feet, unable to take her watch.

He shook his head, remembering it now. How he'd misjudged the boy's situation, ignoring the evidence of his eyes – the boy's utter thinness next to his cousin, his clothes years too big for him, his bowed head and submissive _Yes, Aunt Petunia _when she ordered him to carry his cousin's things so she could pay for the toy his cousin had demanded… He shook his head again.

His curiosity about the boy had taken him rather closer to the trio than he had intended when the Potter boy had suddenly looked up, directly at him, a hungry, longing look changing to utter shock at the sneer of hatred on Snape's face. Snape had nearly reeled back into a rack of merchandise behind him, so struck by the boy's eyes, Lily's eyes. Then one of the packages the boy was holding burst with a bang. Petunia had shrieked, grabbed Lily' son by the neck and her son by the hand, and lunged for the door, leaving the shopkeeper and Snape standing with twin looks of shock on their faces, though not for the same reasons.

He wondered if the boy remembered it. _I hope not._

His gaze shifted to James, and he snorted as he recognized Potter's identically untamable hair on the man. Potter was more vivid in his experience now than James had ever been, really, despite his solid dislike for the Gryffindor from their first encounter. _What would you say to this, James…_, he asked silently … _me, head of Gryffindor? Turning in your grave? _He could almost picture the boy's shock and rage.

_ Boy. _He did some rapid calculations. This picture would have been taken while James and Lily were dating, after graduation but before they married. They would have been eighteen – the same as Potter would be this summer. He looked at them and shook his head. _Children. _James… he was just a boy. His son looked younger… but wiser. _How could he not be? _He sighed and put the picture back on the table, watching Lily and James laugh and hug… and did not even notice that his thoughts were more about Potter than James… or Lily.

He turned to the boy's bed. Potter had left it unmade. _Children. _He grabbed the coverlet by its edge, intending to snap it neatly over the bed, smooth it so the boy would at least have a straightened bed to crawl into that night. As he flipped it up, however, a loose bit of parchment flew up. Reflexively, he caught it against his chest.

"What the…"

Expecting it to be a bit of correspondence – from Granger or Ginny Weasley, no doubt – he went to fold it to tuck back under the boy's covers, but looking down, he realized it was a drawing of some sort. Curious about what Potter might have been sketching, he sat on the bed and opened it.

_ "Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs…"_

_ Wormtail… Padfoot… And Prongs must have been James, because Moony would have been Lupin, of course._

It was a map. A very clever map, at that. It was beautifully drawn, somehow spelled so that whatever area of the castle or grounds he looked at showed in greater detail. He grunted when he saw the seven "secret" – obviously not secret to the makers of the map – passageways out of the castle. That explained a lot. _ Potter… what was your head doing in Hogsmeade? _

He found Gryffindor Tower next, and then a dot – in the middle of a room marked _Harry Potter's Dorm_, in a flowing script he suddenly recognized as belonging to Lupin. The dot was labeled _Severus Snape_. He shook his head in wonderment. _This is __seriously__ advanced magic! _He looked over at the photo, studying the man – the boy – again. _James and his friends had created this while they were __still at school__? Good lord!_

He paused. The map belonged to the boy. It had been his father's, his godfather's, and Lupin's – Lupin who had loved the boy as surely as had Sirius. He mentally waved aside Pettigrew's contribution. It had belonged to nearly every man the boy had loved… who had loved him. With a surprising care, he went to fold it, intending to tuck it back under the boy's covers, near his pillow. A slight movement caught his eye, though, and he peered at the map and saw _Harry Potter_ in Lupin's flowing script. The boy was outside, on the grounds. He watched a moment, thinking Potter would be heading back to the castle, but the dot moved the other way, toward the Forbidden Forest.

_ I wonder what he's doing, _Snape thought. He watched a moment longer, puzzled.

_ Where does he think he's going? _

He waited for the boy's dot to divert from its path. It did not. When it merged with a drawing near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, his heart began to pound. He waited for the boy's dot to reappear. It did not.

_ What does he think he's doing?_

And then he knew. He dropped the map and tore out of the dorm, through the Common Room, out the portrait hole. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly falling twice. He skidded through the entrance hall and down the great stone staircase out of the castle, raced across the grounds as fast as he could go, urging his legs faster, his robe flaring behind him, reckless with a fear he could not name. His wand already pointing, without stopping his headlong pace, without stopping to think, he shouted, "_Wingardium leviosa_!" A twig flew into the air, falling end over end, falling, unerringly, on a knot at the root of the Whomping Willow.

Snape crept up on the doorway to the Shrieking Shack. His headlong flight had slowed to a crawl in the tunnel, but even that, he had taken at as fast a speed as he could possibly manage. Heedless of his torn robe, and in spots, his torn skin, he was aware only of the pounding of his heart and the tiny sound of his breath moving in and out of his lungs as he gulped for air but tried to remain silent. _What was the boy doing here? What the bloody hell did he think he was doing? _

Snape did not know what was frightening him so, but the Shack was associated only with danger in his mind… _James pulling him backward through the tunnel as a howl from up ahead sent shivers up his spine, then urged him backward, so that in the end, he was nearly pushing James out of the tunnel… Chasing Potter, Weasley and Granger down the hole after watching Lupin follow them in, sure he would find them in the same danger he had run… _and then Voldemort… who had taken up station here, where he could manage the battle from afar.

_ I have a problem, Severus… Nagini… Kill… _

And… himself dying – nearly dying anyway – coming to, only to find _someone… something… some nameless threat _sitting beside him… _Wait – was that real? _It was dangerous. He didn't know what was up ahead, but whatever it was, it was dangerous, and Potter had gone in there.

At first he thought he could hear Potter scrabbling in the tunnel ahead of him, but there was no sound now. That frightened him, so that images of Potter fallen in the clearing in the forest kept intruding, and he had to keep pushing them out of the way, so that he could deal with what was here, what was real… so he could do whatever he had to do to keep the boy safe.

He took another step. A crate shifted as his robe caught a corner. He unhooked it with trembling fingers, not even wanting the sound of cloth to give away his position to whatever lay ahead.

_ Nagini. _

_ No – Nagini was dead. _

_ Voldemort. _

_ No – he was dead too… wasn't he? _

_ Had anyone actually ever __said__…? _

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely listen for danger.

_ Calm yourself. Empty your mind. Remove all emotion… _

Howcould he do that when one corner of his mind was screaming, gibbering in terror, demanding he get out of there, and another part was screaming just as loudly – or more loudly – for him to _get in there and save Potter_? How Potter must hate him… must have hated him during those damned Occlumency lessons.

_ Focus._

Voldemort.

_ We won, Severus. _

'We won'? What does that mean, exactly? _What does that mean?_

He was nearly retching in his fear… But not quite.

He stepped lightly forward again. _Don't breathe. Just let the air in and out. Without breathing. Just… move._

Nothing. He could see nothing. No Potter. No Nagini.

_ She's dead. _

No Voldemort… His mind began to take inventory of what else, who else, could be there, but he did not have enough information. He moved forward another inch… another three… another six…

_ Potter._ He was sitting on the floor across the room, as white as bleached parchment, as if he'd been Stunned, then woken up. He was staring, horrified, terrified, his mouth gaping open as if he had been caught in the middle of a silent scream, at something to Snape's left. _Nothing. _He still could not localize the threat. He glanced at Potter again. The boy should have been able to see him, but he _looked_ Stunned, unseeing. Nevertheless, Snape raised one finger to his lips, signaling the boy to be silent. At the movement, Potter's eyes moved from whatever he was staring at, whatever the danger was, to Snape's face, but the look of horror and terror did not change.

_ Homenum revelio_, Snape thought, pointing his wand and switching immediately to a defensive stance. He watched the spell roll silently over the boy. But that was all – just the boy. _Not human, then. Animelum revelio. _Nothing. _Nothing?_ He eyed Potter again. The boy sat unmoving… stunned… _but perhaps not Stunned_?

Snape moved noiselessly into the room, wand raised, a _Protego_ half-formed in his mind. No one was in the room but for him and Potter. Seeing nothing, nothing that he could identify as a threat, he stepped lightly, silently to the boy's side and crouched down, one eye on the rest of the room and its exits. Potter hadn't moved, hadn't even turned to watch Snape approach. When he touched the boy on the shoulder, he turned wide, still-terrified eyes on Snape. Then tears formed in his unblinking eyes, sliding unchecked down his face, and the animal wail that came out of him made the hairs on Snape's neck stand on end.

He grabbed the boy.

"Potter, what is it?" Weak, pitiful sounds kept coming from the boy's throat, making it hard for Snape to think. "Potter, stop that! Look at me! Potter!" He ground out the words at a whisper, taking the boy by the shoulders and trying to shake him out of whatever it was that had him so out of control, so out of himself. The boy gulped and turned toward Snape, an empty, haunted look on his face. Then he finally connected, realized Snape was there, and grabbed at Snape's arms as if they were a lifeline.

"Are you hurt?" he breathed. The boy shook his head, wide-eyed. Snape spared a moment to look around.

_ Nothing. Nothing except…_

Then he realized what the boy had been looking at, what he had not seen, hidden by the angle of light and shadow as he stood at the door, clearly visible now from where he and Potter crouched on the floor.

There were coils of blood on the wall, where Nagini had flailed as Snape attempted to fight off the attack. One bloody hand print dragged down the wall; a larger smear where he'd sagged, slid, then fallen, and lay bleeding out life and hope and regret. A large, congealed puddle of brown, fly-covered blood lay on the floor. He felt himself blanch. He felt sick. But he gritted his teeth against the intrusive memories.

_ Kill, Nagini. _

_ No! _

He still did not understand what Potter was doing out here, what macabre idea had made him seek out the place where Snape had nearly died. A shiver from the boy brought him to himself. _We have to get out of here._

"Potter."

The boy did not respond.

"Potter," he said commandingly, still keeping his voice low. "Come on, Potter, snap out of it." He shook the boy, and the boy connected again. "Come on, we're getting out of here." The boy nodded shakily. When he went to stand, however, his legs collapsed. Snape caught him before he fell, and the boy clung to his arm for support. He was trembling.

"Come on, Potter. There's nothing here. Nothing important. Nothing that can hurt you."

The boy still said nothing, just wiped the back of one trembling hand across his mouth as if he had sicked up, though there was no evidence of that. Snape pulled him to his feet with one hand, his wand arm still out, holding the _Protego _at the ready. He held onto the boy until he stood without swaying.

He wanted Potter to precede him across the room and into the tunnel so he could cover their retreat, but the boy was seemingly not capable of independent action, too shaken and stunned to move ahead on his own. If he froze in the tunnel, there would be no way for Snape to move past him or get them out, short of stupefying the boy and using a Mobilicorpus spell, the thought of which he rejected. On the other hand, if Snape went first, he couldn't keep an eye on the boy, or even be sure he would follow. He looked around again, listening for any sound that would indicate they were not the only ones in the Shack, stretching his senses to the maximum. _Nothing._

"All right, this is what we're going to do, Potter," he murmured, ripping a piece from his already-shredded robe. "We're going to tie ourselves together so we keep together in the tunnel. Do you understand?"

The boy did not respond. He had one hand clenched in a death hold on Snape's arm. Snape moved the boy's hand to his belt and hooked his grip around it. His instinct was correct – the boy held on as if Snape could save him from drowning. "_Cordum torciglium"_ he murmured, twirling the bit of cloth. He tied the resulting rope to the front of Potter's belt and the back of his own. When he went to move the boy's grip from his belt to the rope, he had to peel the boy's fingers loose. They were icy cold.

_ Get him moving,_ he thought. "Come on, Potter. We're leaving. We're going home. Come on…" He maneuvered the boy across the room, keeping himself between Potter and the blood-smeared wall, and pushed him through the door to the tunnel. He was right – the boy could not have gone first. He stood unmoving, not really seeing anything. Snape squeezed past the boy, took him by the shoulders, and shook him.

"We're going through the tunnel, Potter, to the Whomping Willow. Do you understand?" Potter looked at him. Snape was not sure the boy could hear him, was processing what he'd said. _I have to get him out of here_. "Hold onto this rope. Now get down – we need to crawl." He pushed down on the boy's shoulders, and Potter nearly collapsed to the ground. Snape bit back a groan. "Come on, Potter, help me out here, would you?" he murmured, and bent to crawl back the way they had come.

He felt the boy scrabbling at his back, looking to hold onto something. There was no room in the tunnel for Snape to turn around, but then the boy's hand landed on his ankle and held onto it.

"All right, Potter - let's go."

It took forever. The boy kept a vise-like grip on Snape's ankle, which made crawling difficult, to say the least, and slowed them down. Snape kept his wand lit at _lumos maxima, _and kept up a running stream of reassurance and encouragement. "It's all right, Potter… We're on our way back to the school... You're all right... We're halfway there... Nearly there, Potter... I'll have the house-elves fix you some soup... Almost there… that's it, Potter... You're doing fine… Almost there now…"

By the time they reached the entrance under the Whomping Willow, his knees and hands were raw, his voice was hoarse, and his ankle ached from being squeezed in Potter's unyielding grip. At last they stood in the open air. He untied the rope binding them. In the moonlight – _How long had they been down there?_ – Potter's face was ghostly pale. More alarmingly, the boy was still inert, unless Snape pushed or pulled him.

"Come on, Potter," he muttered grimly, "Let's get up to the castle."

He headed across the grounds, pulling Potter by his upper arm. Every so often, the boy tripped on a rock, a change in texture, or a tuft of grass. He was barely lifting his feet. By the time they got back to the great stairs at the entrance to the school, Snape knew it would be hopeless to expect Potter to climb them. He swept the boy up in his arms, shocked at how light he was, and climbed the steps.

Portraits gasped and muttered as he strode through the halls with the limp, unresisting boy in his arms. Peeves came shooting up the hall and hung over them. "Wee Potty Potter take a spill, Professor?" he asked, then spun upside down to hover over Potter's face.

Snape would have snarled at him if he had had the breath. Instead, he panted, "Do something useful for once, Peeves, and get a house elf to attend us in my quarters." Peeves blew a raspberry, snapped off a salute, and sped up the hall cackling, "Wee Potty Potter's got himself a new daddy…"

Snape gasped out the password to his quarters and groaned in relief when the door swung open. He angled his way in, careful of Potter's head. He strode past the sofa, rejecting it without a thought, and made his way into his bedroom, where he laid Potter down, groaning again at the ache in his neck, back and arms. Potter kept a grip on Snape's forearm, but curled up on his side, shaking, still saying nothing.

"Come _on_, Potter," Snape growled for what must have been the fiftieth time that day, and substituted the edge of his robe for his arm in the boy's grasp, giving him something to hold onto. He loosened the boy's belt and collar and pulled off his shoes.

A _Crack!_ announced the arrival of a house-elf – Kreacher. "Master Potter!" he yelped.

"He needs valerian, Kreacher. It's in Poppy's apothecary. Green bottle, second shelf, third bottle from the right. Can you get it? I can't leave him."

"Of course, Master Snape," Kreacher said, and disappeared with another _Crack!_

Snape busied himself removing and banishing Potter's sweat-soaked, torn and dirtied clothes, hampered by the boy's need to hang onto him. He shook his head, angry for some reason he didn't have time to figure out, though it was not with the boy. He muttered, "_Aguamenti_"_, _andwater filled the pitcher on his nightstand. He spelled it warm, conjured a soft cloth and some large towels, and swiftly cleaned the sweat and dirt off the boy, who lay bonelessly limp except for his unrelenting grasp on Snape's robe and his chattering teeth, unprotesting of the experience. Snape summonedsome pajamas from his wardrobe and slipped them on the boy, rolling up the cuffs on sleeves and pant legs – not that the boy was going anywhere. He pulled up the covers, _Accio'd _the throw from the sofa and added that, and spelled them all warm. Because that would hold only so long, he was about to start the fire when Kreacher returned. He had the Valerian, and had thought to bring Dreamless Sleep potion. Snape thanked him, grateful for the elf's initiative.

"Of course, Master Snape. Master Snape has only to ask," Kreacher replied.

Snape nodded. Kreacher took over starting the fire while Snape measured the doses of both potions and convinced Potter to open his clenched teeth. When Potter choked and sputtered, he uttered, "_Anapnea!"_ tried again, and managed to get enough of both, he thought, down the boy's convulsing throat. Kreacher stood at Snape's side, wringing his hands and patting the boy on the leg. Snape thought he rather knew how the elf felt. Potter grabbed for Snape's hand the moment he went to move away.

At last, the boy's body responded to the draughts, and his hold slackened, his trembling ceased and his eyes closed. Snape waited until he was sure Potter was asleep, then pulled his hand slowly from the boy's grasp. When Potter whimpered, Kreacher slipped his hand into the boy's from under Snape's arm. "Thank you," Snape sighed.

"Best take care of yourself, Master Snape. Kreacher will watch Master Potter while Master Snape cleans up."

Snape looked down at his robes, torn and covered in blood. _Blood? _ He looked at the boy anxiously, wondering if he had somehow missed a wound.

Then Kreacher said, "Master Snape's hands are injured. Would Master Snape like a poultice?"

_ Oh._

Snape took all of ten minutes to relieve himself, wash, change, banish his shredded clothing, and splash dittany on his torn palms and knees. Kreacher kept up a running monologue of observations, to which Snape listened with half an ear, about Master Potter's heroism, Master Snape's care of the boy, and Master Potter's condition. Snape let it wash over him until Kreacher said, "That naughty Peeves says that Master Potter has a new daddy. Kreacher would like Master Potter to have a new father. Master Potter needs a father to look after him. Peeves says Master Snape is Master Potter's new father. Master Potter will…"

_ What in the name of Merlin's left foot was the elf talking about?_

"Kreacher."

"Yes, Master Snape?"

"Get me some soup, would you?"

"Yes, Master Snape. Of course, Master Snape. Would Master Snape like some of the delicious fresh bread and with butter as well?"

"Yes, thank you, Kreacher," Snape said absently.

Snape ate his meal quickly, and dismissed Kreacher back to the kitchen with his thanks. Then he pulled a chair to Potter's bedside, propped his elbows on his knees, and pondered the boy over his fingers, tented against his lips. He watched the boy breathe, watched his eyes move under his eyelids, though the boy should not be dreaming. When Potter's hands searched out something to hold onto, he grasped the boy's wrist lightly, and the boy grabbed at his hand tightly. He did not resist, willing the boy calm as if he could do that with the touch of his hand, watching, wondering again _Who are you, Potter? _and considered that he might actually want to know the answer to that, if he were to tell himself the truth.

It was a long night.

_ Truth_, he thought, sometime near morning, watching the boy in his fitful sleep. _Tell yourself the truth, Severus._

Truth was, as much as he loved Lily, she was a memory now, enshrined in perfection, time erasing the nuances and complexities of her personality. He loved her – but he loved her as he had seen her at nine, when they met, and as he had idealized her at fifteen, when they had parted ways, his _"Mudblood!" _severing whatever remained of the potential in their friendship, in his obsession with her. Because that was the truth of it – she'd spurned him after that, and he'd retreated into his association with Lucius, with the gang of thugs who all joined the Death Eaters, one by one, letting his acceptance by the older crowd serve as paltry consolation for losing what he really valued, really wanted. Had he ever loved Lily as she really was, Lily in all her complexity, her taunting ways at times, her laughter at times, at James and Sirius' childish tricks? Had he ever let her be herself, or had he demanded she be the image of perfection that he thought he had espied from the bushes, and now espied from an even greater distance?

And his memory of James was just as flawed, he realized. His recollection of James' casual harassment, his preening in front of Lily, his entitled confidence was bounded by the same ages – James at eleven, an arrogant git of a boy, James at fifteen, showing off to attract a girl… He had seen James through fear – fear that he, Snape, was somehow less than, would always be less than, the wealthier, more attractive, more confident, more _accepted _boy. He was not blameless in the continued enmity with James and Sirius – Merlin knew he'd hexed them from behind often enough, when he could. A lip curled up in amused recollection. They were such boys… such children – younger than Potter was now, he realized, looking at the sleeping boy. He seemed so young…

Potter was more _real_ to him than Lily and James were now, he realized. The boy was living, breathing flesh – though mostly skin and bones, still. He had known Potter longer than he'd known the boy's parents, by years. In reality, he'd been more mindful of the boy – both as a student and as an entity unto himself, his occasional stints of duty as the boy's invisible guard before he reached school age blurring with his near-obsessive awareness of the boy once he came to Hogwarts. Looking back at the last eighteen-plus years, he suddenly realized he had navigated his life with Potter as the magnetic core of the universe… and that that had always pointed him, Snape, to true north.

True north.

_ 'My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?' Dumbledore had said, then sighed… 'If you insist…'_

_ I have no idea who you are…_

_ Who am __I__, anymore?_

_ I am your protector,_ he realized, watching the boy. _I've not always succeeded. _He snorted softly to himself. _All right – I've __never__ succeeded. But I've __wanted__ to. That_ was Truth.

And his urge, his _need_, to protect the boy sleeping in his bed, in his pajamas, holding onto his hand, overwhelmed him. Not for Lily, not for guilt at having stolen away the boy's father – fathers – but for Potter himself. The boy who had faced nightmares and dragons and death itself; who had walked, alone, into the forest to face the deadliest menace the wizarding world had ever known, to save others, to save his friends and the ones he loved and people he would never even know; the mischievous, impetuous and occasionally insolent student… The boy who stared at the blood on the wall – the blood of a man who had tormented and misjudged him – and found that terrifying, horrifying. _Potter_ – who had sobbed in fright and thrown himself against Snape's pounding heart… who had sat with Snape to reassure him in _his _nightmares… who had saved _him_, Snape, in more ways than one… _who is still saving me_, he thought.

He caught himself, mid-motion, shook his head at himself with a wry twitch of his lips, and allowed himself to complete the move, brushing the boy's hair from his eyes with elegant, surprisingly gentle fingers. Then he tucked the blankets around the boy more securely, conjured another for himself, and sank back into his chair to keep watch.

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*sobbing*  
This was Chapter 10 of 30 - a third of the way there. Much left to do... Continuing on, then...


	12. The Room of Requirement

**Disclaimer: ** I want Sev. I want him so badly. But he belongs to another. And Harry, who is like a son to me, has more than one other mother. *sighs* I suppose that in a way, he and Sev are related - half-sibs, at the least, being born in the brilliant, genius mind of J.K. Rowling, who holds rights to both of them in a way I never will. But THIS story ... The plot is mine. All mine. I do so hope Sev approves. 3

Imperios all of you into sending me feedback...

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE ROOM OF REQUIREMENT

Despite moving around his room silently, he turned to find the boy watching him.

"About time you woke up," he said mildly, taking in the boy's improved color.

"Where am I?"

"You're in _my bed_, Potter. And I assure you, the crick in my neck does not thank you for that," he said, without heat, without even his habitual drawl.

"Sorry, Prof…" the boy began, struggling out from under the blankets.

"_Stay_, Potter. I do not wish to have to pick you up off the floor again."

"Pick me… wh… what?" He sank back.

"Here, drink this." Snape handed the boy a glass. "Take it, Potter," he said impatiently when the boy looked suspiciously at the glass then warily up at Snape. Snape sighed. "It's pumpkin juice, Potter. And a mild restorative," he acknowledged. "I assure you, had I intended to poison you, I would have done so in your sleep."

Amusement and uncertainty fought each other on the boy's face. Amusement won. He took the glass and sipped, watching Snape over the rim. After he drained it, he put the glass back into Snape's outstretched hand. He looked down then, and realized he was not in his clothes but in the black pajamas Snape had worn in the infirmary. Snape snorted silently at the boy's alarm and the flush that reddened his neck and ears. He turned away to hide his amusement, placing the glass on a tray on the bedside table.

"How did I get here?"

Snape turned back. "You don't remember?"

The boy leaned back against the pillows, frowning. "I was visiting Fred and Lupin and Tonks," he said, "and I kept wondering about… and then I thought it might be there… in the shack… so I went to look and… I just didn't expect… I mean, I forgot… I just didn't think… you…" He looked up at Snape, his eyes wide, his breathing quick and shallow, his face paling against the pillow.

Snape moved swiftly to his side and sat on the bed, grasping the boy's thin shoulders.

"Potter – whatever you saw can't hurt you, do you hear me?" He shook the boy lightly. He was _not_ going to go through this again! "You're here. You're safe. Everything is all right."

"It's just… I didn't know." Potter swallowed. "I mean, I saw them bring you back… you… you looked like you were… dead." The boy shuddered and his eyes threatened to turn blank.

"Stop this! Stop it, Potter. It's over. I'm not dead – I'm right here," he said firmly. The boy reached his hands up to Snape's arms, and then leaned forward until his forehead rested on Snape's chest, sagging into him for support.

Snape held his breath and sat stock still. _Breathe. He's just a boy. _He put one hand on the back of the boy's head, exhaled and shook his head. Then he drew back, held the boy away from him, and looked him steadily in the eyes, struck again by how like Lily's eyes they were, under James' untidy fringe. "You're _all right_, Potter," he said emphatically, "… and so am I. Now – eat your porridge," he ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the tray on the bedside table. "And – I will be wanting my pajamas back."

A half hour or so later, having assured himself that the boy was steady on his feet, he sent Potter up to his dorm to change, with orders to head immediately back down to the entrance hall. He wanted to get to the bottom of this, whatever the boy thought he was doing heading to the Shack – what the "it" was the boy had gone to find. But he wanted Potter coherent, in control of himself. If he had questioned the boy in his quarters, in a strange bed, in strange pajamas, the boy's disorientation would have continued. He had to snap the boy back to normal, and then hope he would talk.

He nodded approvingly when, some forty five minutes later – _How long does it take to brush one's teeth and change? _– Potter came clattering down the stairs at his usual semi-reckless pace.

"Here, Professor."

"So I see." He stifled an urge to reach out and straighten the collar of the boy's jacket. "Come," he said, turning to lead the way out of the castle.

"Where are we going?" the boy asked, double-stepping to match Snape's quick pace.

"Hogsmeade."

"What for?"

"Clothes, boy. You look like an…" He was going to say "orphan", but caught himself in time. "…like a bedraggled owl, or something Mrs. Norris dragged in."

"What?" Potter demanded, clearly offended. He looked down at his clothes, ready to defend his attire. Snape saw him take in his tattered sleeves, too-short, too-big pants, and worn trainers before he looked up. "Yeah, well… not too many opportunities to visit a tailor this past year," he settled for, somewhat defensively, as the two neared the gates.

"Indeed. It was not a criticism, Potter, merely an observation. Nevertheless, it must be remedied."

"I will if you will," Potter muttered. _Cheeky boy._

_ Though… he has a point_, Snape conceded silently, without slowing his pace. He waved his wand in a complicated series of moves and murmured some words in a sing-song voice, too low for the boy to hear. The gates opened, they slipped through to the road leading to the nearby town, and the gates swung shut behind them.

"One moment," Snape uttered quietly, putting a hand on Potter's arm to detain him. He turned back to the gates, gave another complicated wave, and muttered another spell, punctuated by short pauses, eyeing the air around and above the gates. Satisfied, he nodded and turned back to the road. "Come."

As they walked up the road, deliberately but not too swiftly, as the day was already turning warm, the boy gradually slowed to a halt. "Ah… Professor?"

"What is it?" Snape stopped and turned back.

"I don't have any money. I haven't had time to go to Gringotts, either." He stopped, reddening again.

Snape turned to continue toward town, gesturing the boy to catch up. "That, you can take care of later. Come."

"But…"

"Come." They walked in silence for a moment, the boy a reluctant step behind. "Gringotts," Snape said, "has no quarrel with you, Potter."

"But I…"

"Yes – I am well aware of your actions. However, even the goblins of Gringotts recognize that whatever you were doing had something to do with overthrowing the Dark Lord – if not exactly what that might have been." He looked sideways at the boy, who frowned as he paced by Snape's side.

"Do _you_ know what I was doing, sir?" he finally asked in a low voice.

Snape hesitated. "I have… an idea, Potter." The boy waited. "I presume it had something to do with locating bits of Voldemort's peculiar… collection of treasures."

The boy's mouth twitched, and he nodded. _Better._

"Do you remember Tom Riddle's diary, sir? And Dumbledore's ring?"

Snape nodded. "Yes." He eyed the boy curiously. "They are connected to what you were looking for?"

"Yeah. And… we had to find some other things as well."

Snape's step slowed as he thought. "That's why you needed Gryffindor's sword."

"Yeah. We had to kill – I mean, destroy…"

He broke off and they walked on in silence, Snape waiting to see if the boy would go on. When he did not, he asked, "Tell me… what were you looking for in Ravenclaw Tower?"

"The diadem," the boy said after a moment's pause. It was Snape's turn to stop, a puzzled frown on his face. Potter's mouth quirked up in a bit of a satisfied smirk.

"That diadem has been lost for well over seven hundred years, Potter," Snape said, genuinely perplexed.

The boy shrugged and his smile widened, though he looked away to hide it.

Snape regarded him silently a moment. "I take it you found what you were looking for?" he asked dryly. The boy looked up at him and grinned openly.

Snape pondered him a moment. "I see," he said, and stepped forward again. "Well done," he said quietly as Potter matched his step.

"I'm sorry, Professor," the boy said, his innocent voice contradicting his satisfied grin. "Could you repeat that? I didn't hear what you said."

Snape snorted.

The two wizards prowled the shops of Hogsmeade. It was, to say the least, an awkward experience. Each time they entered a shop, there would be a shocked silence, then a hubbub of voices as people in the store whispered or gasped or called to friends who were looking the other way. The shopkeepers refused to accept payment, pushing Snape's hand away when he insisted. "No, no, Professor, Mr. Potter, I couldn't." "It's a pleasure, Mr. Potter… an honor…" "Please, Professor, allow me this one pleasure…"

By the time they left the third shop, both had been pawed and patted far more than either of them cared to repeat. Snape's nerves were sorely tested. Potter looked absolutely grim, alternating between red-faced embarrassment and pale distress. Snape gripped Potter's upper arm and directed him between two shops, off the main road, up to the far end of the town. He led the boy through a gate into a stone courtyard where two goats were pulling at the grass growing between the bricks, then through a back door.

"Where are…" Potter began, then stopped suddenly. "Mr. Dumbledore!" he exclaimed in sudden recognition.

"Potter! Severus!" The barkeep threw down the rag with which he had been mopping the counter – much cleaner than its former grungy appearance. He hurried out from behind the bar, and crushed Potter to him in a hug. Holding the boy away from him, he studied him with twinkling blue eyes. "You could do with some fattening up, boy!" he said – accurately, Snape thought. Then the man turned to Snape. "Severus!" he said warmly, and gripped Snape's arm in greeting. "You could do with some fattening too! The both of you are a couple of scrawny goats!"

"Not here, Aberforth," Snape pleaded in a low voice. "Could we go upstairs? We've had enough attention…"

"Of course, of course. Go on up. I'll fetch some grub."

They headed up the stairs to the barkeep's private residence. Potter seemed to know his way. _Ah,_ Snape thought in sudden comprehension. _So that's how he came to be at Hogwarts. _Aberforth must have helped the trio in somehow. They'd have been safe here. Aberforth was a member of the Order. He wondered if Potter had known that, or if their meeting had been a happy accident. _That must be how the Order ended up at the school, as well…_

The barkeep's white-haired head was visible coming up the stairs. Shortly, the three of them were sitting in front of the fireplace, unlit given the heat of the day, tucking into a surprisingly tasty lunch of cold ham and turkey sandwiches on dark rye bread, and ice-cold pumpkin juice. Snape rejected Aberforth's offer of firewhiskey and lifted an eyebrow at Potter until he, too declined. Neither of them was in any shape to imbibe spirits. Snape described their frustrations in procuring clothes and supplies, with the boy supplying details in an annoyed, disgusted voice. Aberforth chuckled, but added, "You can hardly blame 'em, Severus. They see you as bloody heroes, the both of you, bringing down that monster."

Snape shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Potter stared at the floor, putting down his half-eaten sandwich. He swallowed, pushed back the plate, and looked up at the two men, clearly looking for reassurance.

"How do we know?" he asked, voicing Snape's very thought.

"What do you mean, son?" Aberforth asked.

"How do we know he's gone? How do we know he can't come back? He did before. What if… what if there's something else, something we missed?"

Aberforth looked at the boy blankly for a moment. Then his face cleared.

"You don't know," he said. It wasn't a question.

Potter looked up, not quite hopefully. "What?" he asked, rather pleadingly, Snape thought.

"The Order," Aberforth said. "We took care of th' body, lad. That very night. McGonagall was in a right snit, having that vile thing in the school, and who could blame her? Kingsley, Arthur, Molly, Bill, McGonagall, Dung…"

Snape and Potter both reacted to that name with disparaging snorts. Aberforth shot them an admonishing look and went on to name some fifteen or sixteen others.

"Kingsley sent us all owls, those of us who weren't at the castle by then. 'Course, nearly all of us were. Anyway, he wanted as many witnesses as possible. Some folks were all for chopping Voldemort to bits, but Kingsley – he's a good man. He wouldn't have any of it. Said he wanted to be sure the man would damned well burn – here as well as in hell."

Snape couldn't help but nod his head at that, though the boy put down the glass of pumpkin juice he'd picked up, looking sick.

"Plus, he said he refused to allow anything so barbaric. Something we would regret, he said, stooping so low. Not sure I agree with him on that," Aberforth growled, "but he had a point. So after all of us confirmed the body actually _was_ that vile piece of goat dung, we lit a fire – and burned it. And for good measure, we burned that Bellatrix Lestrange nutbag and that arse of a werewolf Fenrir Greyback, too."

Snape himself turned pale at that, but he nodded again. Something in his chest unwound, and he felt himself let go of a fear he had almost forgotten in his concern for Potter since yesterday. Potter, too, looked relieved, though not completely. He looked up at Snape, communicating something that Snape did not, just yet, want to discuss. He shook his head slightly, rolling his eyes at Aberforth. _Wait. _The boy nodded, but held his gaze. Snape nodded in return. Aberforth did not notice – or if he did, he held his own counsel.

Snape changed the topic, asking about members of the Order and doings at the Ministry. The trio ate at a deliberate, but not swift, pace. Finally they slowed, and Snape and the boy both began shifting in their seats, restless to get back to the castle. Aberforth took note.

"Now – let's get you two back home!" he said, slapping hands down on his knees and looking toward a portrait of a sweet-faced girl over the mantle.

"Mr. Dumbledore," Potter began, stretching out his hand in alarm. "You can't – the room... fiendfyre…" He stuttered to a halt as he saw the man's smile and shake of the head.

"That room's beyond clever, boy. Not even fiendfyre can mess with _that_ kind of magic. I'd ha' known if it had done. Come on."

Mystified, Snape followed them to the mantle. The portrait of the girl swung open to reveal the entrance to a passageway. Potter seemed unsurprised at this, so obviously he had seen the passage before. Aberforth pushed an unsteady, three-legged stool over to the fireplace and helped Potter up, holding onto his legs to keep him steady until he pulled himself through the hole. "Up with yeh, Severus," he said, and gave Snape a leg up.

Snape paused to turn back, looking questioningly at the barkeep, but he simply waved them on, reassuringly. Snape nodded. "Thank you, Aberforth."

"Don't mention it. Now take care of yourselves – the both of you." Turning to Potter, he said, "I've saved your neck more than once, boy – don't lose it on me, will you? And take care of this one, eh?" He nodded toward Snape, who growled.

"I will, sir," Potter said, throwing an amused look at Snape. "It's good to see you again, sir." Aberforth grunted and swung the portrait closed.

They walked through the seemingly-endless tunnel, wall sconces lighting their way ahead, and winking out behind them. The passageway was broad enough for the two of them to walk abreast. "I take it you know where we're going?" Snape asked, dryly.

Potter hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, sir. At least I think I do." When he failed to add more, Snape raised his eyebrows. He could not be sure in this light, but he thought the boy reddened. _This will be interesting. _He nodded and continued walking, pacing the boy through the rough-hewn tunnel, grateful that _this_ one allowed them to walk, rather than crawl the distance from Hogsmeade back to the school.

Some time later, they climbed a set of stairs, pushed open a door, and entered… Snape's quarters. At least in part. _Ah. _Snape wondered which of them had requested _that_, without specifying aloud.

"The Room of Requirement," Potter said. Snape folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the doorway, crossed one thin ankle against the other, and glared at the boy, one eyebrow raised in pointed demand for an explanation. Potter grinned sheepishly. "I… take it you know about it, Professor?"

"Yes," Snape said, narrowing his eyes at the boy. "I found it my first year – escaping your father and his friends, I might add," he said dryly. "I might ask just how _you – _Ah! The map."

Potter looked confused. "The… the map, Professor?"

"There was a rather interesting map in your bed, Potter," he said. Noting the boy's suddenly anxious face, he drawled out, "It's still there, Potter. I am no thief."

The boy looked uncertain whether to be relieved or guilty. Snape let him puzzle it out. "You… you're not going to confiscate it?"

"On what grounds, Potter? Or have you forgotten that you are no longer my student?"

For some reason, that did not seem to reassure the boy, though he nodded. He hesitated. "The… the Room of Requirement doesn't show up on the map, Professor," he admitted.

"Then how did you…?"

"Dobby – fifth year. We needed a place to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts, because Professor Umbridge…"

Snape cut him off, waving a hand. "I quite understand," he said, distaste for the woman evident in his voice. He thought a moment. "Neville Longbottom," he said.

Potter hesitated then nodded.

"He used the Room this past year once the Carrows…"

"Yeah." Potter rubbed the back of his neck. "At least, that's what he told us."

"I see." Snape looked around, noting the differences from his actual quarters. The boy's request, then. He pushed off the doorjamb and wandered around the room, making note that Potter had felt he required – or the Room had supplied – much of Snape's library and many of his potion-making supplies. At last, he turned to Potter and gestured to the sofa.

"Have a seat, Potter."

"Sir?"

"Sit down. We need to talk. This is as good a place as any – better, in fact."

Potter looked at him uncomfortably. "Uh… what did you want to talk about, Professor?"

"Sit, Potter, or do I have to leg-lock you to make you obey?"

He saw the look of rebellion on Potter's face, and wondered if the boy was going to throw _You are no longer my student _back in his face, but the boy moved to the sofa and sat, the habit of obedience too strong, perhaps. Snape lit the fireplace with a wave of his wand and took the chair to Potter's left. He sat back, elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his fingers against his lips, and crossed his ankles, stretching out his long, thin legs in front of him. The boy grew restless, and looked around the room to avoid Snape's penetrating gaze. Finally, Snape lifted his chin, dragging the points of his index fingers down past his lips.

"What were you looking for?"

Potter looked at him warily. "What do you mean?"

"In the Shack. What were you doing there?"

The boy's eyes tracked back and forth between Snape's eyes as if he couldn't decide where to look. He swallowed. Snape waited him out, the tips of his fingers back on his lips. He counted to twenty three before the boy spoke.

"I was looking for a wand," the boy whispered, fear making his voice rough.

Snape frowned and lowered his hands. "A wand?" he asked, puzzled. "What wand?"

"Voldemort's wand," the boy said, still whispering, and leaned forward, clasping and unclasping his hands between his knees.

Snape shook his head. "I thought you won Voldemort's wand – before you killed him."

"I didn't kill him, sir."

_ Carefully… carefully… _Snape told himself, his heart pounding.

_ We won, Severus._

_What does that mean__?_

"I was under the impression…" he began.

"Voldemort killed himself… sort of…" the boy finished awkwardly.

_ And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential._

He narrowed his eyes at the boy in honest confusion. "Explain."

Potter heaved a heavy sigh and scrubbed at his face. Snape wondered if he was going to have to dose the boy with a calming draught before this was over. A glass of juice appeared on the table to the boy's left – and another closer to Snape's elbow on the same table, he noted with some irritation. Now the damned _Room_ was dosing him! Nevertheless, he gestured to the boy to pick up his drink. Potter waited until Snape had taken a long sip of his own glass – _pumpkin juice – just pumpkin juice_, he noted – before he gulped down a mouthful of his own.

"The… the wand that Voldemort had that night was… It used to be Dumbledore's wand," the boy began, the glass of juice trembling lightly in his hands.

That tickled something uncomfortable and foreboding in Snape's memory, but he could not remember what, just then. He nodded.

Potter looked up at him. "Voldemort thought he was the master of the wand because he had killed you, and he thought you killed Dumbledore."

Snape swirled the juice in his glass, hesitating. "I did."

"Yes, but you didn't _beat_ him. He _wanted_ you to kill him."

Snape hesitated again. "I assume you saw this in… the Pensieve." _Just what all did I… what did he see?_

Potter nodded. Snape set his glass back on the table. He scratched an ear, sighed, tented his fingers at his chin again, and nodded back. "All right. Go on."

"But Voldemort was wrong about something else, too. When you killed Dumbledore, he was unarmed."

_ What?_ Snape frowned with the effort to remember. He could picture it… could see the old man fighting to stay upright, suddenly, inexplicably, much, much more ill than he had been earlier in the day. He was surrounded by Death Eaters and Fenrir Greyback, Draco Malfoy pointing, then shakily lowering, his wand. _Hadn't Dumbledore been holding a wand? _ He frowned trying to remember. Surely he must have been. What on earth would have possessed him…? _Draco._

"Potter, are you telling me that _Draco Malfoy _disarmed _Dumbledore_?" he asked, incredulously.

"Yeah. He did. I saw it. Dumbledore was weak… very weak. When you… when Professor Dumbledore died, he was unarmed. So you never won Dumbledore's wand, did you? Draco did."

Snape rubbed the tips of his fingers across his forehead, shaking his head as if that would bring order to the jumble of thoughts and images.

"But then…"

"I beat Malfoy in a fight at Malfoy Manor," Potter said. "When we were captured by Snatchers. Dobby came and rescued us. Aberforth sent him." He leaned forward again, looking down at his hands. The story was pouring out of him now, as if it had been bottled up – _which it must have been,_ Snape recognized. _There hadn't been anyone for the boy to talk to at the school – not about this._

"Wormtail… he came down and he tried to strangle me, but…"

_ What?_

"… Ron and I got away. But Pettigrew, he strangled himself with the hand that Voldemort gave him in the graveyard, when he killed Cedric."

Snape fought to keep his face neutral, composed, so that the boy would tell his story without getting upset. Not that Potter was looking at him now. The boy had retreated into his memories.

"And Hermione was screaming because Bellatrix was using the _Cruciatus_ curse on her…"

_ Merlin, Circe and all the gods! _Snape gripped his hands, tented together under his lips, so tightly that his knuckles were white. His stomach tightened in remembered anger and outright panic at discovering the Carrows were using the _Cruciatus_ curse on students, and teaching it to those students willing to use it against their peers. _One_ _more thing he had been powerless to stop; just one more way he had failed to keep them safe._

"… and Ron couldn't stand it, so he jumped out and hit her – Bellatrix, I mean – with a spell from Pettigrew's wand. But she had Hermione… she was holding a knife to her throat…"

Snape recalled the thin red line trailing down the girl's neck to her collarbone as she leaned over him. _Bloody hell…_

"… so we had to drop our wands, and she ordered Draco to take them, but he didn't want to – not really… and when Dobby made the chandelier fall, they were distracted, so I jumped over a chair and wrestled three wands away from Draco. We Apparated away but Dobby… Bellatrix threw her knife and… and Dobby…" The boy drew a ragged breath. "… and one of the wands was Draco's, so… so… so when I got them away from him, I won his wand." He shook his head, as if still disbelieving of their escape.

Snape sat in stunned silence, his mind filled with the images of torture and death that Potter's story had evoked. He shook his head. _How in Merlin's name had they gotten away? _Dolohov's tale had said nothing of this – only that the trio had been captured along with three others, but had somehow escaped, taking Ollivander with them.

Potter's voice broke the silence.

"It was Draco's wand I used against Riddle in the battle."

"What? Why?"

"Be… because my wand was broken… by Nagini…"

"In the forest?" _Had Hagrid's memories included that, or skipped it? Or had Snape forgotten in his confusion?_

Potter looked at him strangely.

"No. In Godric's Hollow. I thought Bathilda Bagshot had something for me… the Sword of Godric Gryffindor. I thought Dumbledore might have left it there for me. We couldn't think of where else it might be. And Ron – he'd left, but…"

An image of Ron Weasley throwing himself into a frozen pool, dragging Potter up out of the water, came to Snape. He shook his head, confused, and forced himself back to Potter's story.

"… Hermione and I went to Godric's Hollow to find out…"

The boy stopped again, not pale or showing any signs of distress – other than the utter insanity of what he was describing. He simply came to a halt.

"My parents' graves are there. Did you know?" Potter said slowly after a moment.

He was not looking at anything. Snape froze and closed his eyes. He opened his eyes and searched Potter's face, looking for… What? He did not know. Grief? Anger? Blame? But the boy was lost in his memory. Snape swallowed and nodded. Potter did not seem to notice – or care.

"And our house was there, too," the boy said, wonderment filling his voice. "… and there was a sign, and people had written things on it. I thought it was brilliant. And Hermione and I… we visited my mum and dad's grave…"

He took a breath and his voice changed, his breathing sped up.

"And then Bathilda was there, and we followed her to her house, but she was the snake and…"

_ What? _Snape heart pounded so loudly in his ears he wasn't sure he was hearing correctly. He shook his head. _What?_

"… and if it hadn't been for Hermione, we wouldn't have gotten away. But my wand broke. The snake… it was shooting around everywhere, and it must have hit my wand and… Hermione said she thought _she_ broke it when she did the _Confringo_ spell, but I think it was Nagini, when it was fighting me or something. So… it was a good thing I grabbed Draco's wand, 'cuz otherwise I wouldn't have had one to fight Riddle with…" His voice faded away.

Snape managed to slow down his own breathing enough to calm his thoughts, struggling to catch up to Potter's pressured telling. Potter sat in silent recollection, staring into the fire. He clasped his hands between his knees once more. He must have put his glass down at some point. Snape sought to make sense of it all. _One thing. Just focus on one thing. _He drew a breath. The wand. Potter won Draco's wand. Draco had already won Dumbledore's wand. So Potter…

"So _you_ were the true partner of the wand – the wand Voldemort thought he had stolen from Dumbledore and then thought he would win from me by killing me."

Potter nodded uncomfortably. "Yeah."

"So when Voldemort tried to kill you in the Great Hall…"

Potter snorted, then laughed. It was a strangely reassuring sound.

"I used the _Expelliarmus_." He shook his head at that, a rueful smile on his face. "Remus would have killed me right there, I bet. But Voldemort lost the wand just as he shouted "_Avada Kedavra"_, and the wand was flying through the air… and I caught it… and the spell rebounded and hit him instead. So… so in a way, he committed suicide."

Snape leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, and shook his head. He looked up, and sat a moment contemplating Potter in amazement. "_How,_ in the name of Merlin and all that's holy, did you ever figure _that _out?"

Potter grinned and a bit of mischievousness appeared in his eyes. "Good, aren't I?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "None of your cheek, Potter. I'm still better trained than you!"

"Yeah, but _you_ don't have the…" Potter broke off, his face suddenly deathly pale, turning horrified eyes on Snape's.

And suddenly, just like that, Snape remembered.

_ "The Elder Wand, Severus… the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore… The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner… The Elder Wand…"_

He turned in shocked realization toward Potter, who, in turn, stared at Snape, utterly frozen, a look of absolute terror on his face.

* * *

_Oh, Merlin! That was Chapter 11 of 30. Don't stop now!_


	13. The Elder Wand

**Disclaimer: **Not my characters; not my universe; just my heroes and my home. Thank you, Jo Rowling. 3

Not my income either. My only pay is what you say... so say a LOT. Thank you very much.

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE ELDER WAND

"Where is it?" Snape croaked.

Potter swallowed and shifted his weight away from Snape. Not measurably, perhaps, but detectably nonetheless. He said nothing; Snape said nothing. He just watched the boy, his mind whirling with questions and dread. His eyes darted unintentionally toward the boy's wand hand, as if the Elder Wand would be sitting there. Potter noticed, and shifted his hand toward the opening of his robe. The world stopped spinning, and the two of them hung suspended between breaths, staring at each other.

"Are you going to curse me, Potter?" Snape exhaled the question softly, his eyes glittering blackly at the boy.

The boy looked up at him, pale as alabaster and almost as still. His pupils dilated in fear, terror; the green irises narrowed to bare hairs surrounding black pools of dread. His breath was coming swiftly and shallowly, and a vein pulsed in his neck. Sweat broke out on his forehead and his hand trembled, inches from his wand – _which wand? Did it matter?_

"Where is the wand, Potter, the wand you were looking for in the Shack?" Snape said with deadly quiet, deadly stillness. "How did you lose it? What happened?"

Potter shook himself out of his frozen position, raised his hand to run it through his perpetually mussed hair, and looked puzzled. "What? Professor, I never had…"

"You were looking for the wand, Potter – Voldemort's wand," Snape continued, raising his voice to talk over the boy. "You had it – at the end of the battle, you had it. How did you lose it?"

Potter's look of confusion frightened him, getting the better of him, making him angry.

"Do you have any idea how _dangerous_ that damned wand is?" he ground out through clenched teeth. "You should have _destroyed_ it! You should have _bloody fucking well_ _destroyed_ it! How could you be so stupidly careless…?" He would have gone on, but Potter interrupted him again.

"Professor," Potter said insistently. One hand rose to stop him. "Professor…"

"_What?_" Snape snapped, furious in his fear.

"I _have_ the Elder Wand, Professor. It's Voldemort's _own_ wand I was looking for."

Snape stared at him, uncomprehendingly, trying to reorient himself._ "_Why the _bloody_ _hell_ are you looking for Voldemort's wand?"

Potter let out a breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. Snape struggled to back down from his fear and anger, mastering himself with an effort. _Get a hold of yourself. _He forced himself to sit back a bit, raised a shaking hand to his own head, and ran his hand through his hair, mimicking Potter's move of a moment earlier, thoroughly confused.

"Let's start over. What – _exactly_ – were you looking for in the Shrieking Shack?"

"Voldemort's wand… the one Ollivander made for him… his first wand."

Snape shook his head, completely flummoxed. "_Why?_"

"Be… because it has a phoenix feather core. The same as my wand… and both came from Fawkes. Dumbledore told me."

_ Dumbledore __told you__?_

"And… and it just feels… unsafe, you know? If Voldemort was making horcruxes…"

_ Horcruxes?_ Snape opened his mouth to deny that – no one had made horcruxes in living memory. It was just theory, taken from a darker age. But… _Tom Riddle's diary… Dumbledore's disastrously poisoned hand… the ring… the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw… Nagini… the boy… _That made sense. He'd just never thought of it that way, had never put it together that way. And that madman was capable of doing it… _and Dumbledore had known._ He suddenly knew, with utter certainty, that Potter's fear was based on something real.

"… I figured he might have turned his wand into a horcrux. What if… what if it's out there somewhere? What if he could come back? What if he could start this all over again? What if he could _find me_?" The boy finished shakily, and he looked at Snape pleadingly, wanting, needing to be reassured.

_ My god, _Snape thought, _he thinks Voldemort is still out there._

"Potter… he can't have," he said, abruptly, gratefully, calm.

The boy was not so easily reassured. "What do you mean?" he demanded urgently.

"Wands can't be used that way. There's no way he could turn a wand into a…" Snape waved his hand, "… _horcrux_. Wands have souls… if not souls, exactly, at least _being_. They are practically alive. They _are _alive. Don't you listen in Herbology?" He gave a shaky laugh. "What am I saying? Of course you don't listen."

Potter put out a hand. "Professor – I haven't been here in a year. When was I supposed to have learned this? I don't remember anything about wands in Herbology. We studied about bowtruckles and wandwood trees in Care of Magical Creatures."

Snape stopped at that. "Seventh year. It's NEWT level herbology. Seventh year. You weren't here." He was talking more to himself than to Potter.

Potter was puzzling out something. "Professor… if Voldemort couldn't turn a wand into a horcrux, how could he turn me or Nagini into a horcrux?"

_ Merlin and all the gods… _

"Nagini has – _had_ – a reptilian mind, Potter… not advanced enough to fend off that kind of incursion – and you were an infant..."

"Yeah, but… wands are from _trees_, Professor… what kind of fending off can _they_ do?"

Snape shook his head in a way Potter evidently found both amusing and rather reassuring, to judge from the flash of a smile that crossed his face. "Potter… did you _never _crack open your Herbology text book?"

"Well… no, now that you mention it. Hermione did all our reading for us. She just filled us in," the boy admitted sheepishly.

Snape relaxed at the tone in the boy's voice, and finally began breathing normally. "Of course," he said, shaking his head with a rueful laugh. It occurred to him that he did a lot of head shaking around Potter. "Trees – trees are connected to and draw their power from Ygdrasill, The One Tree. You have heard of this, I trust."

"Um…"

"Perhaps a year of remedial herbology is in order… along with a year of everything else."

"I was thinking about it," the boy said with a wry smile.

"Indeed. In any case, without getting into theory that is evidently beyond your limited capabilities…" and Potter actually laughed a bit at Snape's drawling tone. "… let me just say that what you suggest _is not possible_."

"But… if his wand is still out there…"

"Then we shall be able to find it, Potter. But I assure you, it is _not_ in the Shrieking Shack. And it is _not_ a horcrux," Snape said firmly.

"Where might it be, Professor?"

Snape thought for a moment. He knew exactly where it would be… _should _be. But if he told the boy, no doubt he would wake up in the morning to find the boy gone, off to find it. And _that_ _would_ be dangerous.

"I have an idea. Let me check."

"But…"

"_Let me check_, Potter," he said, half pleadingly, half commandingly.

Potter hesitated, then nodded.

"Let's get back." Snape said, standing up and offering a hand to pull Potter to a standing position. "I don't know about you, but I could eat a hippogriff."

Potter allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. When Snape turned to go, he hesitated. "Professor…"

"_Now_ what? _Please_ don't tell me that you are hiding Draco Malfoy in your wardrobe."

Potter shook his head. "Would… would it be all right if I ate in your quarters? I'm … I don't want to spend… I'd rather not eat dinner alone."

Snape eyed the boy, inwardly thanking Merlin the boy had suggested it, as it saved him trying to figure out how to do so himself.

"I think we can manage dinner for two, Potter."

"Thank you, sir."

They turned and left the Room of Requirement, the door fading to nothing on the stone wall behind them.

After dinner, Potter lingered, wandering around Snape's quarters, trailing his fingers along empty shelves and tables. He had grown quieter by the minute as they ate, then left the table and began to pace the perimeter of the room, staring at nothing as Snape cleaned up and sent the empty dishes back to the kitchen. Snape stood in the doorway of the room he thought of as his lab, though the shelves were still bare, long arms crossed over his thin chest, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, watching the boy.

"Professor McGonagall will be mad if you don't get your things out of the Headmaster's – Headmistress' quarters, Professor," the boy commented quietly. He was standing in front of the nearly empty bookshelves along the wall to the right of the fireplace, walking his fingers up the three potions books he'd been reading in the infirmary.

Snape said nothing. His eyes flicked to the empty room diagonal from where he stood, then back to the boy. They had to finish this. The boy had to work it through. _They _had to work it through, both of them. He sighed in reluctant resignation.

"Where is the Elder Wand, Potter?" he asked quietly, staying where he was, watching the boy trail his fingers to the next bookcase, closer to the door of his bedroom.

The boy neither stopped his slow, tactile exploration of Snape's quarters nor hesitated. He didn't even flinch. "It's in my room, in my trunk," he said in a vague, almost other-worldly tone.

_ Ah._

Snape nodded. "Along with your Weasley Wizarding Wheezes?" The ghost of a smile appeared then disappeared from the boy's face, but he did not even nod.

"I'd like you to spend the night here," Snape said. It had been a long, difficult, tiring day. He didn't want Potter haring off in some other damned direction without him knowing; he didn't want the boy out of his sight, in fact. But he was not about to spend another night sitting awkwardly in a chair, no matter how transfigured for comfort. He'd fix something for the boy in the spare room.

Potter nodded at that without argument. He continued pacing the shelves slowly, as Snape waited for what he knew was coming.

"Do you want the wand, Professor?"

There it was. That was what they needed to clear up – the thing that stood in the emptiness between them, now, threatening them both.

"What?" he asked. He wanted the boy to repeat the question, to own it, to acknowledge that that was where they were, right here… right now.

"Do you want the Elder Wand?" the boy said dreamily.

The boy did not even turn to look at him, only kept trailing his fingers slowly along the shelves, one by one, as if willing to sacrifice himself again if Snape decided to duel him, kill him where he stood or in his sleep, or spell him with some other damned thing, to acquire the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick.

_ Gods, he must be terrified._

He let the silence draw out until the boy turned to face him, almost peaceful, willing, wistful in his contemplation of the possibility of death, the possibility Snape would kill him for the Elder Wand. Snape's heart clenched painfully. He waited until he and the boy had stared into each other's eyes nearly a full minute from across the room, each of them breathing lightly, almost carefully. He wanted the boy to be absolutely, absolutely sure. His heart was pounding in his ears. He imagined the boy's was, too.

"No, Potter. I do not want the damned wand," he said, enunciating every word clearly and slowly.

Potter looked at him quizzically. "What _do_ you want, Professor?" he asked, still barely there in his question.

_ What do I want?_

Now it was Snape's turn to look away. He pushed away from the doorframe, and walked to the books Potter's fingers had been climbing, straightening them slightly with long, trembling fingers. The boy did not move, did not appear to be breathing. He looked up to see the boy watching him, a distant, innocent, accepting look on his face, still a lamb to the slaughter. His heart twisted in desperate denial.

He turned to fully face the boy, one hand still on the books, shaking his head slightly, finding himself – with utter lucidity – in one of those moments of Truth. He'd been running toward this moment since Hogsmeade… since the Shrieking Shack… since Potter showed up at school, seven years ago… since Voldemort killed Lily and James… since before the boy was born, really. And – acknowledge it or not, he was lost, either way. He allowed it to show.

"I want you to be safe," he said hoarsely.

Potter stepped toward him across the braided rug, moving so slowly he seemed to be in a trance. He stopped mere inches away from him, his eyes leveled at Snape's chest, as if he were waiting… or deciding something. After a few moments, he closed his eyes, let out a breath, bowed his head, and swayed forward until his forehead rested, once again, against Snape's laboring heart. Without thought, Snape raised his arms and drew the boy to him, holding him as tightly, as reassuringly, as he could.

_ Safe._

* * *

This was Chapter 12 of 30. More... more... more... Keep reading!


	14. Remedial Potions

**Disclaimer: **Not my sweet Severus... not my sweet Harry... not my own school... but Oh, if only they were! Thank Merlin J.K. Rowling decided to let them out and play, though! You know? Where would we be...? I shudder to think. In any case... lemme know how you think it's going... Thanks.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

REMEDIAL POTIONS

They had ended the evening with tea, Potter sitting on the sofa wrapped in a blanket, Snape on one of the chairs, watching him. The boy was clearly exhausted, but his eyes remained wide, staring. Snape insisted he take Draught of Dreamless Sleep, though he doubted the boy would stir once his head hit the pillow. Indeed, the boy had been nearly asleep on his feet when Snape led him to the bed he Summoned from the stores on the seventh floor to the empty fourth room. He removed Potter's glasses and shoes and loosened his belt and collar, then pulled a light cover over him. He lit a fire in the fireplace in the room, and sat down carefully at the foot of the bed, studying the boy's face, until he was sure the boy was asleep. After a few minutes, he sighed, rose as quietly as he could, and went to his own room, where he fell into an exhausted, mostly dreamless sleep, though some part of him listened for any sign the boy needed him.

When he rose early the next morning, Potter was still asleep. During the night, he had curled around his pillow, clutching it tightly, but the covers were otherwise undisturbed. He'd had a peaceful night, then. Snape turned back to his study, snapping his fingers at the table as he passed.

He sat at his desk and pulled parchment and ink to him. His quill scratched softly on the parchment as he worked. His first letter was to Kingsley at the Ministry. The second was to McGonagall, also in London. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled another piece of parchment toward him, and, somewhat less steadily, penned a third, longer missive. He was sealing the last of the letters when Potter came hesitantly out of the fourth room, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Snape gestured to the table, and the boy wandered over without comment and sat in front of one of the place settings. Snape pressed his sigil into the wax seal, placed the envelope on top of the other two, and joined the boy.

"Breakfast," he murmured, and their plates filled with scrambled eggs, savory sausage, warm toast and blueberry jam. The ever-present pumpkin juice was accompanied by other choices – hot Irish breakfast tea, ice cold milk and apple juice. Fresh summer fruits were sliced neatly into bowls. They ate without a word, the previous evening making them slightly awkward with each other.

Snape finished his scant meal before the boy, who was chasing egg around his plate, albeit slowly, his head down. He poured himself another cup of tea, added honey and milk, and stretched his crossed legs out under the table, watching the boy with hooded eyes.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Potter looked up, then back down at his plate. "Nothing," he said quietly.

"It is perfectly obvious something is on your mind, Potter. You look as if you just lost the Quidditch cup to Slytherin."

The boy gave a snort at that. _Better._

Snape leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, rotating his teacup idly in his still-thin hands. The boy twitched a shoulder, feeling Snape observe him, but kept his gaze on his plate.

"Let's have no secrets between us, Potter."

"It's 'Harry'."

Snape hesitated.

"Potter," he said. "I'll not keep secrets from you – not anymore. I am done with all that," he said with a bitterness he had not intended to voice. He raised a hand slightly to forestall what Potter was going to say. "Let me finish."

The boy nodded.

He took a few moments to gather his thoughts.

"Ask me anything," he said. "You know most of my secrets anyway, given that damned Pensieve," he said wryly, shaking his head. "I will answer if I can. No –" he said in response to the look on the boy's face. "There are some things that are not mine to tell, stories that belong to other people, and I will not betray their confidence. But if I _can_ answer a question, if it is mine to tell, I will. You can _ask_ anything. I'll tell you if I can; I promise. No more lies," he said, raising his fingers to draw them across his forehead, tired of it – all of it.

Potter nodded again.

"In turn…" The boy tensed. Snape leaned across the table and tapped his arm, but Potter did not look up. "In return, Potter, I hope you will… in time… come to feel free to tell me or ask me anything that is on your mind." He paused to watch the boy, who still said nothing. "I know this will be … difficult… for both of us… and I am not asking you to trust me without proof that…"

The boy's head came up at last. "I _do_ trust you!"

Snape snorted softly, his eyes glittering. "That is unlikely to have changed overnight. Let's… let's take it slow, shall we? Give each other room to figure it out… make mistakes." He shook his head. "Merlin knows, _I'm_ likely to make mistakes – this is new for me, too."

The boy narrowed his eyes skeptically at that, but nodded.

"Now… _if you can_, tell me… what's on your mind?"

The boy continued to look at him, and Snape was puzzled by the look of guilt and regret that came over his face.

"I… I didn't use the Elder Wand," the boy said, and looked down at his plate in apparent misery.

Snape creased his brow and shook his head, not understanding.

"Ron… Ron told me to use the Elder Wand to save… to save your life. And I didn't do it."

Snape continued turning his teacup, thinking through how to respond… how he felt about that. The boy took his silence for something negative, because he whispered, "I'm sorry, Professor…"

"Potter… look at me."

The boy looked up, but he hunched in apology.

"I'm here. I didn't _need_ the Elder Wand to be saved. You saved me anyway, by telling Kingsley, Minerva and Arthur where I was, what you saw in the Pensieve."

"But what if you died because I didn't use it?"

"I didn't."

"But what _if_…"

"Then I would have died, Potter." He sighed deeply. "But that would not have been your fault. You would have done all you could…"

"But I _wouldn't_ have. What if I could have saved you, kept you alive?"

_It's not about me,_ Snape realized. _It's about that damned wand._

"I… don't think I would have wanted that…" he said slowly. "Don't mistake my meaning… I'm glad to be alive. I thought I was dead before. I'm glad to be here. But…" and he realized this was true, "I was ready… willing, in any case, to die. I made that decision long ago, when Dumbledore asked me to spy for the Order. We _all_ made that decision. Every one of us in the Order knew it could mean death," he said, nearly echoing what Lupin had said when Moody and Sirius died, if he only knew.

"But if I could save you…"

"Do you think I would have wanted that, Potter?" He thought it through before he continued.

"I know what that wand has done as well as you – quite likely better. _I_ _know_ what Voldemort did over the years before he wielded that wand. I know what Gellert Grindlewald did to get that wand and what he did with it. Do you think I'd want that… _thing_… used on me? I'd _rather_ die."

The boy flushed, and Snape realized he had spoken more harshly than he had intended, at the end. The boy was stuck with this wand… he didn't have to make it harder on him. He didn't mean to.

"What am I going to do?" the boy whispered.

Snape sighed. "Whatever you do…" He hesitated for a long moment, then repeated, "_Whatever_ you do, Potter," he said with slow, clear emphasis, "I'll be here for you… if I can… if you want."

"_Harry. _Thank you, sir," the boy said, after several long moments of his own.

Snape watched the boy sit with it for a few minutes longer. He put his teacup down and pushed back his chair, rising fluidly to his feet. "Come on," he said. "Clean up."

"I should go up to my room… check on the wand…"

Snape shook his head. "No. Stay here." The boy looked about to protest. "_Stay_, Potter, or I will have you in detention until you are a hundred and three." Potter did not point out the multiple levels of absurdity of that. He simply nodded and looked relieved, for some reason.

"Are you… are you going to help me find Voldemort's wand?"

Snape nodded. "Yes. I'm sending a letter to Kingsley. I have reason to believe he may know something."

The boy accepted that without question. He glanced at the pile of letters on Snape's desk across the room. "Who else?"

"McGonagall." The boy shot him a questioning look. "Just reporting in, Potter. She _is_ the Headmistress. She has a right to know what's been happening in her absence." He lifted his hand to forestall the boy's protest. "I've been discrete. Besides, she told me to report in every other day, or she would 'hightail it back here faster than a Thestral can fly,' I believe she put it."

The ghost of a smile traced its way across the boy's face. Then he shrugged a shoulder, accepting that, too. "Who's the third letter for?"

Snape hesitated. "Arthur Weasley. I've put it off too long."

The boy nodded at that, looking back down to his plate.

"I'm going to send off those owls. And I should finish my checklist… I still need to do the seventh year dorm – it'll be the first years' this term."

"Where will I go?" Potter asked forlornly.

Snape blinked. "Surely your aunt and uncle…"

Potter shook his head in adamant refusal. Snape was actually relievedat that, the thought of the boy returning to that loveless… he couldn't call it _home_… making his stomach twist in sympathetic denial.

"London – Grimmauld Place...?"

Potter grimaced at that and shook his head. Not that Snape faulted him; it _was_ a grim place, and for the boy to be there alone seemed… untenable.

"The Weasleys'?"

Harry shrugged.

"Did you have something else in mind?"

"I never really thought beyond this year – this last year, I mean," Potter said, looking down at his unfinished eggs. "I figured I'd still be fighting Voldemort, looking for the last of the horcruxes… I thought it might take years. We all did – me, Ron and Hermione. Or that he would kill me in the end… that I'd be dead by now…" His voice trailed off.

_My god… _Snape traced fingers across his forehead, continually assaulted by the realization of what the boy had gone through – was still going through.

"So… I didn't _have_ a plan beyond this year." The boy shivered as he said that, looking up with haunted eyes.

Snape stepped around the table and gripped the boy's shoulder. "But you are here, Potter," he said slowly. "And you _have_ a future to plan for, now," he said with quiet urgency.

Potter put his head in his hands. After a few moments, Snape realized that the boy was crying, silent tears falling onto his plate. He wondered if it had actually hit the boy yet – that he had survived, that it was over, or if he had been too stuck in his fear about the Elder Wand, about the possibility that Voldemort could return, and the loss of Fred, Lupin, Tonks and the others who lay in the graveyard at the Black Lake.

_Has it hit __me__ yet_? he wondered. _Would it ever?_

He shook his head on a silent sigh and turned to lean against the table next to the boy. He allowed the boy a few moments, then reached down to tilt his chin up, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"We're still here, Potter," he said, his quiet, emphatic baritone soft and soothing. "Both of us… and we both have to figure out how to make that all right."

Potter nodded hesitantly, uncertainly.

"Come on," Snape repeated, one hand out to pull Potter out of his chair. "Up."

"What should I do while you're gone?"

"Take a bath. And get the dishes cleaned up." As this was merely a matter of sending them down to the kitchen, it was no big task, but it would take the boy out of his head and back into practical, every-day things. He needed that. Snape hesitated. "And… you might consider making your residence here…" He gestured vaguely. "… permanent – take up that fourth room. Just for the summer, until you decide what you're doing next term."

Potter stopped mid-rise and sat back down rather suddenly.

"It's entirely up to you," Snape said, trying for nonchalance, a twinge in his chest at the boy's apparent hesitation. "You don't have to decide now."

The boy sat perfectly still for several more moments, searching Snape's face. After what felt to Snape like an age, he cleared his throat and whispered, "Thank you, sir. I… I'll think about it."

Snape nodded, and very carefully, so that the boy would not see he had been holding his breath – a fact of which he had just become aware – exhaled.

c

As Snape paced the steps to the Owlery and back, he pondered the boy. This isolation was not good for him. He _had_ to get Potter back with his friends. He gave the tawny grey owl headed to the Burrow an extra treat and whispered to her, urging her to hurry. The tawny rubbed her beak on his hand in reassurance, and headed out the tall window. The brown barn owl he asked to take letters to the Ministry snapped at his fingers until he gave him an extra treat, too. Making a mental note to ask Filch to clean the tower, before he remembered that McGonagall was Head, not he, he headed back to the castle, pondering another trip to Hogsmeade to keep the boy busy.

When he arrived back at his quarters, he found Potter sitting on a stool at the worktable in what would be his lab – if he ever fetched his potions supplies from Minerva's office. The boy had propped up one of the three potions books he'd been reading before, balanced against the tip of his wand somehow, the wand's haft balanced, in turn, against some shallow flaw in the table's surface. He was so focused on whatever he was copying out that he apparently had not heard Snape's entrance. Snape stood in the doorway, watching the boy scratch away with a quill, stopping to check his work against the book. _If you'd been that focused during Occlumency lessons…_ He shook that unworthy thought out of his head.

He cleared his throat. Potter's head shot up, and the book fell shut with a snap, knocking into the inkwell that had been on Snape's desk that morning. Ink rapidly began spreading across not only Potter's notes but also the table, threatening the book. Potter went to sop up the mess with the sleeve of his robe, but Snape jumped to rescue the book, sat the inkwell upright, and siphoned ink off of the boy's notes and the table with his wand. Potter disgustedly held his sleeve out to the side, and Snape siphoned the ink out of that, as well.

"Thanks, Professor," he began.

Snape waved away his comment. "My fault – I startled you." Potter looked skeptical. Snape shrugged. "There is no shame in admitting fault, Potter. Next time, however, use your wand, not your robe. You _are_ a wizard, as I vaguely recall."

Blushing, the boy asked, "Send off those owls all right?"

"Yes," Snape said, coming around the table to read what the boy had been working on. "Dreamless Sleep Draught," he read aloud. "Rather tricky for summer vacation, don't you think? Particularly as you missed this past year?"

The boy shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I thought maybe… Sometimes I have nightmares," he admitted. "And if I'm going to be sleeping down here… I didn't want to wake you up."

Too many thoughts and feelings went through Snape at that for him to sort out just then. But _the simplest path is the best_, he reasoned. He nodded, giving the boy permission and approval. "You'll need some things, then… ingredients, a cauldron…"

The boy looked relieved.

"And if you're going to be brewing potions in my lab, Potter, they will have to meet my standards. I don't want you poisoning yourself and blaming it on shoddy housekeeping on my part or any other such rubbish." Though he spoke sternly – and meant every word of it – Potter did not take it amiss.

"Yes, sir. Thank you. I would appreciate your help."

He considered the boy a moment. "Remedial potions after all, then, eh?" he said.

c

Time to get his things, if the boy was going to be brewing potions. He sent Potter up to his dorm room and called Kreacher to accompany the boy, to help him collect his things. He directed his own feet toward Dumbledore's – _Minerva's _– office, reluctant, but determined to pack as quickly as possible and get out. How to do that without confronting Dumbledore was the question. He could think of nothing more useful than determinedly ignoring the man's portrait.

"Scarlet tartan," he said. The gargoyle guarding the entrance moved aside with a crunch of stone, and he stepped onto the spiral stair, letting it take him up to Minerva's door. Taking a breath, he turned the handle and strode in.

As the Headmistress was not in residence, many of the occupants of the portraits were away, visiting other squares of gilded, painted or rough wooden frames. Phineas was probably at Grimmauld Place, overseeing the cleansing and de-hexing of the place, no doubt cursed and booby-trapped after its penetration by Yaxley. Armando Dippet would be at his villa in France, while Newt Scamander was likely visiting his son and grandsons at that drafty castle of his in Dorset. Other portraits were snoring softly, though that hardly was reassuring: they were all accomplished actors – or liars. Dumbledore's portrait was empty, and Snape heaved a relieved sigh. He conjured several trunks, a portable apothecary chest, and a number of special cases, and began packing away potion-making ingredients and equipment, working swiftly but carefully, particularly with liquids and the more antique or delicate of his tools.

He had just started emptying the bookshelves when there was a startled "Severus!" from the frame behind the headmistress' desk. He froze, his back to the portrait, then forced himself to continue his packing.

"No word for your former Headmaster, Severus?" the voice chided.

He kept packing, gritting his teeth, refusing to hurry any more than he already was. There was silence for perhaps half a minute.

"It is good to see you looking so well, Severus – though… it's rather hard to tell with your back to me."

"I'm not talking to you, Albus. Perhaps your brilliant mind had not noticed," he said, disdain and anger clear in his voice.

From another portrait came a disapproving sniff.

"Come, Severus. What is it? The boy is alive; you are well… what's troubling you?"

He felt the tension building in his shoulders at that, but forced an angry retort back down his throat. _I will not be baited, damn it!_

"There will always be a cost to war, Severus," the portrait said, in clear reprimand.

He whirled around at that. "What do _you_ know about it?" he spat. "What cost did _you_ pay?" There were gasps from several frames at that.

"Do you imagine I paid no cost, Severus? You are standing there… while I… I am rather stuck here, I am afraid."

Snape turned back to his packing, disgusted.

"I would say you got the better part of the bargain, my friend," the portrait continued, maddeningly, chidingly.

Snape turned back and stared at the man in the portrait, wondering how _in hell_ he had evertrusted the man.

"_You bloody ass_," he said coldly. "Do you have any idea what he's gone through? What he's _still_ going through?"

"Do you?"

"I have a damned sight better idea than you do, old man."

"Indeed. I take it the boy has confided in you, then."

Snape said nothing.

"What is it that upsets you so, Severus?"

"_What upsets me, Dumbledore?_ What upsets me is that you _used_ him… You used him in your damned private war, your damned determination to be the power behind the plot to kill Voldemort. What upsets me, _you fucking bastard_, is what you did to him, what you put him through, all so that _you_ could claim victory!"

Snape's voice rose in agitation.

Dumbledore observed him, sadly shaking his head.

"_I_, Severus? Don't you mean _we_? It was not I who set the boy on this path, after all. Surely I need not remind you that it was you…"

A wordless, anguished cry of rage and guilt tore from Snape's throat. "Shut up! _Shut up_! SHUT UP! You _killed_ him! Do you know that? He _died_, you _fucking bastard_! Alone – in that damned forest! Do you have any idea what that was like? He _died… alone_!" And the utter agony of that, of Potter facing his death, alone and unprotected, tore him apart.

And without even looking to see what he was grabbing, Snape picked up the closest thing at hand and hurled it with all his strength at Dumbledore's portrait. He picked up the next thing and smashed it against the wall as well. And he went on hurling and smashing things until there was nothing left to hurl, none of the pleasant, delicate, spinning instruments that had adorned the office while Dumbledore was Headmaster, none of the tomes of history or lore sitting on candlestick tables, none of the inkwells or quills… He hurled them until he thought he would be sick from the force of his rage and despair, until the other portraits hissed and ducked, until Dumbledore fled.

When there was nothing left to hurl, he fell, exhausted, to the marble steps that led to the dais on which the desk itself had sat until he had upended it, dropped his head to his hands, and sobbed out his fury, loss, and guilt, until he was reduced to retching dryly onto the stone, collapsed on his back in anguished, unforgiving grief and hatred and self-loathing.

A long time later, he got unsteadily to his feet and, with meticulous care, set right the office that now belonged to Minerva McGonagall, taking care to repair each thing he had broken in his rage, to place each thing back in its spot, so that the Headmistress' office would be perfectly ready for her when she returned. Then he packed the remainder of his books and the clothing still hanging in the wardrobe or folded in drawers in what was now the Headmistress' bedroom, and called a house elf to transport them to his quarters in Gryffindor. Levitating one last box before him, he left the office, without looking back.

He made his way to his study, by which time the boxes of his possessions awaited him. Potter was not yet back. He sat for a long time by the fireplace, thoughts and feelings whirling around his head, making him nauseous. He fought it, lest the boy return and find him like that. He rose to unpack the first of the boxes. It held his potions books with his exacting notes from another age crammed, in his stingy handwriting, into margins and across the author's text. The first book fell open to a page on which he had written _Vulnera Senentor… _ And it came back to him - _Potter standing over Draco Malfoy_, the _Sectumsempra_ that Snape had indirectly, inadvertently taught the boy… used, without comprehension, without intention, against someone who could have been – _should_ have been – his friend, who lay on the floor of the boys' bathroom, his life's blood mingling with water from the plumbing the boys' dueling had destroyed.

_What am I doing? _He shook his head, sick to his stomach. _Gods, I fucking destroy everything I've ever loved. What am I doing?_

He looked down at the book and suddenly could not bear to touch it, did not want to own it, did not want it to exist at all. He tore out the page, crumpled it in clenched, trembling hands… and the next… and the next. And then, with exquisite deliberation and attention to detail, with the same meticulous care with which he had repaired the damage he had done to Minerva's study, he unpacked the rest, and just as carefully, forgetting about Potter's expected return, dismantled, destroyed and shredded every vestige or reminder of his former life, of the role he had played, knowingly and unknowingly, of the lies and manipulations, of the people who had died because of him or because he could not protect them, of the relationship he thought he could trust, only to find out that he, too, had been manipulated and lied to.

_Fitting,_ he thought. _Fitting. _Because he deserved nothing less.

Each thing he considered and destroyed cut like a shard of Bellatrix's knife, like the bite of Nagini's fangs, reminding him of his sins and what it had cost… the cost to Arthur and Molly, to George, to Potter… the cost to Lily and James, and Colin Creevy's parents… Neville, Charity, Mad-Eye, Lupin and Tonks… and the list seemed to go on and on. He thought he would die from it – the students who were Crucio'd by the Carrows or – and he stumbled thinking of this – the Slytherins… the abject terror in Draco's eyes the entire past two years… Fred's laughing face… The slivers of glass and bits of brass pierced his skin as he shattered and broke the bits of himself, of his past, of who he thought he was, until nothing remained, nothing of who he was, save three books that sat on his shelves, and a vial of memories on the mantle in his bedroom.

When every bit of his former existence lay in tatters of parchment and shards of glass and brass around him, he _Incendio'd_ those things that would burn, swept the rest into a pile with a disdainful flick of his wand, and banished it into bloody oblivion, where, he hoped, he would never see, hear, or think of it again. He cleaned up as meticulously as he had shredded and shattered the things that tied him to his past, grimly cleaning the blood and bits of glass and metal from his hands, though that only so he would not distress the boy, rather than from any wish to heal himself. He'd have preferred the physical pain to the anguish he was feeling in his soul… in every fiber of his being.

When he finished, he sat and stared some more, wishing he had something else to destroy, knowing that what he really wanted to destroy was himself. He hated himself – even more than he hated Dumbledore, if that was possible, and he was not sure that was possible. He hated the man's _fucking _supercilious,superior tone, his utter arrogance, his _fucking_ obsession with power. He hated his own fucking stupidity, the utter inanity of his blind belief that he had ever protected the boy, or ever could have.

He hated that he had asked the boy to move in… _What was he thinking? _He hated that he let himself hope. _What the bloody hell was I thinking? What the bloody hell am I doing? My god, why don't I leave him the hell alone? Oh Merlin, he must hate me. Why the bloody hell doesn't he hate me?_

He lurched to the bathroom and vomited until he was as empty as his quarters in Gryffindor Tower where he did not – most definitely did not – belong.

c

He sat with his fingers tented at his forehead, elbows on his knees, in front of the cold fireplace, shivering despite the summer heat, which barely penetrated the castle. He almost didn't answer the third knock and the muffled "Professor?" but eventually rose stiffly from the sofa, and went to the door.

"Sir?" the boy said, peering with hesitant concern at the utter lack of expression on the man's face, then at the utter barrenness of the room behind Snape. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine. Everything is fine, Potter," Snape said tiredly. The boy did not correct his use of his surname. Without looking at him, Snape gestured to the fourth room. The boy edged past him, uncomfortable, uncertain, as if regretting being there. Snape tried to pull himself together, his hand still on the knob of the open door. He just didn't seem to know where he had left all of his parts. After a minute, he took a breath, shut the door softly, and went to stand in the doorway of the boy's room.

Potter was sitting on his bed, back to the door, staring at the box of things he had placed on the floor. Probably all he owned, Snape thought, given his aunt and uncle and his year on the run. He wondered if the Elder Wand was in with that small collection. _Where else would it be – could it be?_

"Potter."

The boy jumped.

"I… I need to go out tonight. You'll be eating alone. Just call for Kreacher or one of the house elves, and they will see that you have what you require."

"Where are you going, sir?"

"Out."

"But…"

"That is all you need to know… for now," he amended, mindful of his "no secrets" pledge and ruing it already. His mouth quirked in ironic amusement – he'd hoped the boy would confide in him with that pledge, but already he felt the need to dissimulate. _Some things never change, Sev_.

"Sir, if you would rather…"

"No, Potter…" he said, tiredly.

"Harry."

Snape sighed and walked over to where the boy sat. Nudging the boy's knee with his own, he indicated the boy should move over. He sat down next to him, holding onto the quilt with both hands as if trying to keep himself from keeling over. He could feel the boy's eyes on him, feel his concern and discomfort. He wasn't quite sure what to say, did not want to get it wrong, did not want the boy to take hurt…

"Professor…?"

"I am not your professor, Potter," he reminded the boy – reminded himself – quietly.

"Well – what else am I supposed to call you then?" the boy asked in sudden irritation.

Snape looked up, his mouth open to reply, but could not think what to say. He did not really want the boy calling him by his first name, but he could not think why on earth not. The older Weasley boys, Bill and Charlie, referred to him familiarly. The twins had, too, though impertinently… _His heart ached… would never, never stop aching. Fred_… Why should the boy not? He would have graduated this summer, after all – was an adult, for all intents and purposes, would be an adult even in the Muggle world in just a few weeks – less, actually.

"Whatever you wish, I suppose," he said finally.

"I can hardly call you 'Severus'," the boy said with an uncomfortable laugh. Snape's stomach twisted, and for some reason Lily came to mind. "So what, then? 'Uncle Severus'? 'Mr. Snape?' 'Dad?'"

The boy inhaled sharply and froze. Snape's stomach flipped and his heart stopped beating. A stabbing pain went through his chest. He reached up to grab at it, but the boy's face turned to his, eyes wide in shocked alarm, and he altered his hand's path to run his fingers through his hair. He was sure he was as white as the boy. He swallowed. "Let's just stick with 'Professor' for now, then," he said, trying unsuccessfully to laugh.

The boy nodded and swallowed, horrified at what had come out of his mouth.

Snape jerked to his feet, and Potter stood almost as quickly. "Professor, I'm…"

"Don't!" Snape cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't. I… I'll be back later." He pivoted on his heel and left the room, left his quarters, left the school, taking off toward the gates at what he tried very hard to keep from being a run.

* * *

GAHHHHH! Ok. Breathe. It'll be okay. This was Chapter 13 of 30. Keep going!


	15. Between Life and Death

Okay... first of all, I hate this chapter title, so if you have a better idea, PLEASE, for the love of Merlin, let me know. Secondly: The Usual Disclaimer: Not my creations, but definitely my plotline. NO money exchanged hands... no dragons were harmed... etc., etc., etc. I DO HAVE a pet dragon, however, and he gets very hungry when there is a lack of nice, chewy feedback to snack on. FEED THE DRAGON. That is all.

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH

He'd started at Madam Rosmerta's, but the atmosphere – jovial, almost festive – irritated him, made his shoulders twitch and his stomach sour, made it impossible to think. So he wandered up through the darkening streets, eventually, reluctantly, entering the Hog's Head. He thought to slink in unnoticed and just think a while, but Aberforth's eyes were too keen, and the pub too empty, for that. Catching the man's mood, Aberforth simply brought fire whiskey, warm bread, goat cheese, and a bowl of steaming stew over to where Snape sat against the wall, his head down, retreating quite uncharacteristically into the cowl of his robe. The few patrons the other side of the room finished their own meal and left, perhaps driven away by the dour energy emanating from the dark figure.

Snape waved away the fire whiskey, but Aberforth poured two tumblers, turned a chair around so he could straddle it, and pushed a glass into Snape's hand. Snape hesitated, then downed the drink in one swallow. Aberforth matched him. He poured them each another, clinking his glass against Snape's, murmuring, "To absent friends… and boys." Snape didn't even look up. After a moment's hesitation, he picked up the glass and took a sip. Aberforth swirled the dark amber liquid around in his tumbler, considering the obviously distressed younger man across the table. "Want to tell me about it?" he asked in his low rough voice.

Snape hesitated for all of five seconds, and then it all poured out of him – his anger, his sense of betrayal, his soul-twisting guilt and self-hatred, his shame at having treated the boy poorly all these years, his uncertainty about who he even was anymore… More than all of that, he spoke of his heart-rending sadness for what the boy had gone through and was still going through. He talked of the burden of survival that the boy carried, what the boy had gone through – in the forest, in the Pensieve… how he had contributed to that, had led the boy to his death… how he destroyed everything and everyone he ever loved, how he hated himself for that, how he wished _he_ had died – long ago, before any of this had any hope of happening.

The pub stayed mercifully empty. Aberforth listened without a word, letting him purge himself of it. At last he talked himself out, bereft, depleted.

Aberforth leaned back in his chair, which, somewhere along the way, he must have turned right-side to the table. He gazed into his half-empty tumbler of firewhiskey, letting the silence stretch out. Snape, exhausted, hung his head in his hands. Aberforth looked up after a while and considered the man sitting before him. Something must have amused him slightly, because he snorted softly.

"The two of you… you're some pair," he said gruffly, shaking his head.

Snape looked up at him from under his hands. "What are you talking about?"

The barkeep hooked one arm over the back of his chair, swirling the contents of his glass much as his brother swirled the contents of his Pensieve to identify patterns. Maybe it worked the same for him, because he seemed to be fairly clear about what he wanted to say. He took a swig, eyeing Snape over the rim of his glass.

"You an' Potter," he said, gesturing at Snape with his glass.

Snape shook his head in confusion.

"The both of you are hell bent on taking responsibility for the whole damned wizarding world, far as I can tell."

Snape grimaced and twitched his shoulders in denial of that connection.

Aberforth placed his glass on the table, leaning forward almost into Snape's face and said, quite emphatically, "_Both o' you._ Damned hero complexes."

Snape swallowed convulsively, confused as to how to respond, part of him wanting to recoil, part wanting to attack… and part just too damned tired for either. "I don't see the…"

"How old were you, Severus? How old were you, when you signed up to be the Dark Lord's servant, when you took that damned mark?" Aberforth growled, almost angrily.

Snape hesitated. "I… I… I…" He stopped. It wasn't that clear… it wasn't that easy.

"When did you start hanging around that lot, eh? What were you – twelve?"

"Eleven."

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Aberforth drawled.

"Eleven. I… Lucius… he…"

"And how old was dear ol' Lucius," Aberforth sneered the name, "…when he _took you under his wing_?"

"… sixteen," Severus whispered.

"So… let me get this straight. You're guilty of ruinin' the wizarding world because of a decision you made when you were _eleven… _just so I understand what you're sayin'."

Snape got angry, "No, damn it! Merlin, Aberforth – it's not… that's not…" He gripped his hair in his frustration. "No, I… I took the mark when I was sixteen, not eleven! Sixteen!"

"Oh, sixteen. I see. So, by your account, the decision you made at _sixteen_ is the one we should hang you up by your thumbs in Azkaban for, eh? Because a lad of sixteen, o' course, should know better."

"I _did_ know better," Snape said coldly, throwing Aberforth a disgusted look.

"Oh did you, now? So, by your reckonin', a sixteen year old lad oughta' know what he's about then, eh? Can we agree on that?"

"Yes, damn it!"

"Well, then, we'd better chuck the both o' you into th' same cell. And throw Draco Malfoy in with the two of you."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Do you know how my brother died, Severus?" Aberforth demanded.

Snape shivered and seemed to shrink into the chair, away from Aberforth, whose brother he had murdered. "You don't need to remind me. Why are you asking that?" he rasped.

"Do you think you killed him?" Aberforth challenged again.

"Of… of course. I know I killed him." Snape's voice shook. "What are you…?"

Aberforth spat into the fireplace, which hissed. "You don't know nothin'."

Snape stared at him, eyes black as coal and about as lifeless, thoroughly bewildered. He said nothing for several moments, waiting for the other man to explain, but the barkeep just looked at him fiercely with those penetratingly blue Dumbledore eyes. Snape shook his head and turned his hands up in helplessness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Aberforth stared at him, chewing the inside of his cheek, or maybe his tongue. "Perhaps you and Potter should have another talk," he said. Then he shook his head. "No. That poor lad's been through enough. I'll not allow you to torment him further."

Snape opened his mouth to protest, but Aberforth waved him to silence. "I had me a talk with my _sainted brother_ a few weeks after he died," he said. "And do you know what he told me?" He went on without waiting for Snape's response. "That arse of a goat turd told me that Potter fed him poison."

Snape reeled back in his chair in shock.

"Yeah – thought that would straighten your nose hairs." Aberforth laughed bitterly. "Only, like most things in my brother's life, the story _isn't so clear_ as all that. Seems that my dear departed brother boxed the boy into agreeing to do _whatever he said_… an' _'whatever he said'_ turned out to be pourin' poisoned water into my brother's protestin' mouth so that my arse of a brother could complete some damned quest he was on, figurin' that he could get back to th' castle in time for your fancy potions to save his damned life. Can you imagine that? Puttin' th' boy through that?" Aberforth shook his head disgustedly. "Potter told me, not more'n two months ago, that my brother _begged_ him to stop, _begged_ Potter to kill him, saw things that pained him so much he wanted to die…" Aberforth's eyes flicked up to the ceiling where his personal quarters lay, then back to Snape "…but that he'd been sworn to _do as_ _his Headmaster_ _ordered_."

"So you tell me, _Professor Snape_ – which one of you was responsible for my brother's death, eh? You? Potter? Draco? My _sainted brother_? Or maybe Voldemort, eh?"

Snape stared at him, horrified. "That… that makes no…"

Aberforth slammed his hand down on the table with such force that it rebounded back at him, and Snape recoiled as if he'd been Stunned. "I never took you for a stupid man, Severus – nor an egocentric one. My brother had a corner on that. Get your head outta your arse an' think, man!"

He looked at the man across from him who was sitting with his mouth open, looking, if anything, more confused than ever.

"How old is Potter?" he barked.

"_What?_"

"How old is that boy of yours?"

"He's not…"

"_How old_, damn it?!"

"Seventeen… he's… he'll be eighteen the end of the month."

"And… do you think that boy had the power to refuse my brother when he backed him into a corner like that when he was sixteen, nearly seventeen? Do you hold him responsible for agreeing when my brother ordered him to obey? Do you think he _murdered my brother_, Severus_?_ Because if you do, we'd better hustle him off to the Ministry for trial… and hope they throw him into Azkaban and throw away the key. Because he just killed off _'the brightest wizard of our age'_," he said, sarcastically.

"No," Snape croaked. "No, of course not… how could he have…"

"I'm sorry," Aberforth said, still hostile in his sarcasm. "Did I hear you right? Are you suggestin' that a sixteen year old might not have the _authority_, the _perspective_, the _quickness of thought_ to keep from being cornered by a much older, more experienced, and infinitely more manipulative man?"

Snape shook his head. "It's not the same…"

"Oh isn't it? You'll have to tell me just how. Oh – wait – I forgot. With Potter, there was my sainted brother manipulatin' the hell out of him… whereas with you, there was only, let's see now, Voldemort – a minor irritant, I'm sure, a mere thirty-four years your senior and bad from the day he was born, and Lucius – five years more experienced in _his_ slick vomit of a personality, and Avery and…"

"Stop," Snape said, raising a hand weakly. "Stop."

But Aberforth was not done. "Okay, let's leave that little thing aside. Let's take Potter's parents." Snape winced. "Aye – there's a sticky wicket, isn't it? Let's see… how old were you when that little bit of subterfuge went down, eh? When you heard what you shouldn't'a' heard upstairs here?"

"Nineteen," Severus said, his voice thin, devoid of all emotion.

"Ah yes, an _infinitely_ older person…" Aberforth sneered. "And… how old were you when you turned spy for the Order?"

"I… I… nineteen," Snape whispered, his eyes black, lost in the memory.

"So let me get this straight. You made a mistake – a real whopper of a mistake this time, all right, an' how long _was_ it, exactly, before you saw that mistake and tried to make it right? Before you turned spy for the Order?"

Snape sat for a long time without answering, staring into the distant past. He swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking in his still-thin throat, opened and shut his mouth several times, and finally whispered hoarsely, "Two weeks…" He inhaled on a sob and tears rolled down his face. "… two weeks." He did not see the compassion on Aberforth's face.

"Two weeks, son?" he growled softly. He shook his head. "And how long have you been punishin' yourself for those _two weeks_?" he asked. This time, the compassion, understanding and sorrow in his eyes and his voice could not have been more evident.

Snape just looked at him.

"Answer me one more question, Severus. Did you ever kill anyone? My sainted brother aside, since he orchestrated even that, did you ever kill anyone?"

"No, but…"

"Did you ever _Crucio_ anyone? Even on th' Dark Lord's orders?"

"No!"

"Did you ever _Imperio_ a single soul?"

Snape hesitated, but the man's eyes yanked the truth out of him. "Yes – Mundungus Fletcher."

"Oh, yeah? And why was that, Severus?" Aberforth said, almost threateningly.

"To… I did it in order to… Dumbledore…"

"Yeah – he would come into it, wouldn't he?" Aberforth interrupted with a sneer. It occurred to Snape that Aberforth didn't like his brother very much.

Snape waved it off. "It was the only way…"

"Only way _what?"_

Snape drew a breath. "It was the only way to try to save Potter's skin. The Dark Lord – _Voldemort_," he ground out, "wanted the boy taken, and I… I had to give him information… had to _play my part_," he said, bitterly. "But after… I had to keep the boy safe, so I used the _Imperio _on Fletcher and Obliviated our discussion… told him to suggest Polyjuice to… to Mad-Eye." He choked the name out and buried his face in his hands.

Aberforth let him sit with it.

"I'll ask you again, lad. Did _you_ ever kill a man?" he said softly.

"It's the same thing… it's the same…"

"Is it? Don't smell th' same to me. We are – were – in a war, boy. And in war, things happen – things we don't intend, things we wish we could take back, things we wish we could forget. You and that boy of yours have a problem, son," Aberforth said gently. "And it's the same problem. You both carry guilt that's not yours."

He held up a hand at Snape's opened mouth. "I'm not sayin' you're blameless, either of you. But neither are you as guilty as you feel, either of you. And you'd better help that boy come to grips wth it, Sev, or it'll ruin his life, same as it's nearly ruined yours."

_Nearly?_

He watched Snape for a while longer. "Now. You've got a boy to take care of," he said softly.

Snape shook his head in denial.

"Do you think your job is done because Voldemort's dead? Leavin' aside th' fact that we'll be sniffin' out Death Eaters for years t'come, th' boy still needs you… still needs guidance and support, someone he can count on…"

"Arthur…" Snape began, but Aberforth cut him off with a chop of his hand.

"Arthur has enough sons to be lookin' after, includin' wounded ones of his own. He loves the boy. Molly took him into her heart the moment she laid eyes on him, to hear her tell it. But – this boy needs more. He needs a father figure who is utterly devoted to _him_, and him alone. He's a special one, that lad o' yours."

Snape shook his head again, numb with it, overwhelmed, confused, uncertain how to respond. Poter was _not 'his boy'_. His stomach twisted as he thought that, and that confused him even more.

"Deny it all you want, Sev, but it's as plain as the beard on a goat that he trusts you… an' that he's coming to love you, if he's not there already. You'd best be ready for it."

"Now, while you're sittin' here beatin' yourself up over things you bin beatin' yourself up over for half your life, we have a boy sittin' there alone in that castle… worryin' about what he did to upset you, if I know 'im… an' like as not beatin' himself up, too, over things he's not responsible for – not entirely," Aberforth said gruffly. Then his voice softened just a bit. "Your place is with him, Sev. Th' boy needs you." He patted Snape's arm.

Snape barely felt it.

Now…" Aberforth said, pushing to his feet, "… time for me to turn out the goats. And you need to get back to that boy o' yours."

Snape rose obediently, absently. He shook himself into partial awareness and turned to head out the door, but Aberforth stayed him with a hand. "Upstairs with you. Floo powder. McGonagall's had a direct connect here from her quarters since… well, practically forever. As you're in her quarters now, we'll just get you back quickest. No point walkin' through town this time o' th' night."

He led the way upstairs to his private quarters, opened a small wooden box on the mantle, and tossed a handful of powder into the fire. He shoved Snape, unresisting, into the green flames and growled out, "Gryffindor Tower".

Feeling disoriented at many levels, and nauseous on top of that, Snape put out his hand to stop from pitching forward as his feet contacted the flagstone that was the hearth of the fireplace in his study. The room was dark, the fire low. Automatically, he uttered "_Lumos,"_ to light his wand. He almost sat down in a chair by the fire, but he was so exhausted that if he sat, he knew he would not get up. Instead, he went to his room and changed into pajamas. Unconsciously, he listened for any sound from the boy's room. _Nothing._

When, half an hour later, he was still awake, staring at the darkness, he sat up, dangling his legs over the side of his bed, shook his head for nearly a full minute, telling himself he was a fool… and then slid to his feet on the cold floor. He padded silently out of his room and to the open door where Potter slept, and leaned against the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the differing level of light. He could make out the boy, curled up in the bed and turned toward the fire. He still wore his glasses, but they were slightly askew on his face, the lenses reflecting the fire's glow. Snape snorted softly and sighed. He walked to the bed, gently removed the boy's glasses, and placed them on the bedside table. He brushed the boy's fringe out of his eyes, lingering lightly over the scar on the boy's forehead. Then he pulled the blankets up against the chill, tucking them securely around the boy, and turned to return to his room. Potter's soft sigh followed him out the door.

c

He woke late the next morning, groggy with firewhiskey hangover, remembering only half of what he and Aberforth had talked about the night before, though that half made his intestines squirm enough that he skipped breakfast, settling for a quick cup of tea after his bath. The boy was not in his – in _the_ spare bedroom… the spare _room_. A wet ring on the table in his study indicated the boy had eaten breakfast, though, for which Snape was grateful. No need for both of them to go hungry. He wondered where the boy was, and had a moment's fear that he might have gone back to the Shrieking Shack, but shook that worry nearly immediately. _He won't want to repeat that… and there is no need… _Hopefully, the boy was doing something… uplifting. Maybe visiting Firenze or taking a swim. _I really have to get him out of here._

He looked around his barren quarters, and shook his head ruefully. _I'm a right arse, aren't I? Idiot! _He'd have to go to Slughorn's old quarters – his quarters from two years ago – in the dungeons, and to the potions store room near the classroom to get supplies and equipment. It would take a while to replace those things he had destroyed in his rage yesterday… though he did not really regret having done so. He felt… clean.

He should finish the seventh years' dorm, though. He headed upstairs, pronounced "Ashwagandha" at the Fat Lady, who waved him in absently, absorbed in her conversation with her friend Violet, and headed to the boys' dorms. Potter was not there. He finished his checklist rather more quickly than expected, and headed to the dungeons. Finding less than half of what he needed there, Slughorn evidently having emptied the inventory of some things when he left, he began a mental shopping list, his precise mind and near-perfect memory suiting where others would have needed parchment and quill.

Filch and Mrs. Norris were on the landing to the second floor when he came up from the dungeons, and he diverted to the Great Hall on some mental pretext, to avoid the dour man, though he did wonder what the man did all summer, as he never seemed to vacation elsewhere. Potter was not in the Great Hall, though he did not expect him to be. The Gray Lady sat at a table reading a book. He let her be.

He was starting to get comfortable in the space, the new flagstone and marble, the freshened hangings… though he had never been at the school when it was this empty, except to report to Dumbledore during the summers, and then, he'd taken the floo network directly to the Headmaster's quarters. His footsteps' hollow echo was a lonely sound. He wondered again where the boy was. As the library was closed – not that he would have expected Potter to be there if it was open – he inferred the boy was probably out on the grounds. Exiting the main entrance, he looked around.

It was one of those perfect summer days – sunny, mildly warm, the air clear enough to hear the Thestrals calling as they wheeled over the Forbidden Forest. He wondered how Hagrid and Grawp were faring in France and his lips turned up in a sneer before he mentally kicked himself and laughed. He could practically hear Aberforth's admonishment.

There was movement at the edge of the forest – Firenze, checking on Hagrid's hut. The half-giant must have asked the centaur to look after it while he was away. Firenze's long gaze, sharper than any wizard's, must have seen him watching – he raised a hand in greeting. Snape nodded and raised his own in salute. The centaur turned back to whatever he was doing.

The Black Lake sparkled so much in the sunlight that Snape had to shield his eyes from the glare when he looked in that direction. The giant squid, the lake's most sociable denizen, was floating lazily on the surface, occasionally waving a tentacle, probably nabbing some unsuspecting fish or an unwary bird too small for Snape's eyes to make out at this distance. He saw no sign of Potter.

The graves of the fifty-four fallen defenders shone brightly, mica in the granite reflecting the sun, making the scene sparkle and shift as he looked. Without conscious thought, he found himself moving in that direction – looking for company, he realized, even among the dead. He suddenly found himself wishing he could sit over a fire whiskey with Lupin, and the thought took his breath away, as if he had fallen from Potter's broom and landed on the Quidditch pitch, like that time the Dementors had invaded the school.

His mind filled with images of Lupin… who drank the potion Snape made him without hesitation, despite that Snape had lumped him in with James and Sirius, hexing the three of them – and Pettigrew – whenever he had the chance when they were teenagers, even though Lupin never hexed him back. Lupin… who did not blame him even when he accused him of letting a dangerous criminal enter Hogwarts… who did not speak ill of him even after – and Snape's stomach curdled in guilt – even after Snape had arranged for him to lose his job. Lupin… who had trusted Snape based on nothing stronger than Dumbledore's say-so. His anger at Dumbledore flared for a moment, but he pushed it aside.

Somehow, he just hadn't realized how much he had counted on the werewolf… to be there… calm, rational, compassionate… forgiving. Lupin had been his only remaining link to Lily and James, to the possibility that someone who had known them, loved them might someday know the truth, and give him absolution – or help him forgive himself, maybe. That would never happen now. He nearly wept from it, and his desire to speak with the man was nearly enough to follow him into death.

_Awfully morbid for such a sunny day, aren't we, Severus?_

_Well buck up,_ came the internal rejoinder. _What's to be morbid about? You only arranged to get fifty-four students, house elves, and townspeople killed, killed Potter, got labeled a coward –which you are – and lost yourself the only man who ever supported you, because you killed him, too, didn't you? What's to be morbid about?_

_My, we're full of self-pity this morning, aren't we? _he heard in Aberforth's dry voice, imagining he could feel a thump on the back of his head.

_Go to hell,_ he responded, without heat.

He was nearly upon the first grave – Colin Creevy's – when he saw him. Potter was sitting under the old oak tree, at the far end of the graveyard, facing Remus, Tonks and Fred's graves. He was leaning against the trunk, one knee bent, one leg stretched out before him, the green of his t-shirt blending with the grass, the white of his trainers with the grave markers, his dark hair nearly invisible against the bark of the tree. No wonder he hadn't seen the boy.

He wandered through the graveyard, wanting to… have a talk with… Lupin, but slowed his steps and hung back a bit, not wanting to intrude on the boy. He needn't have bothered.

"Good morning, Professor," the boy said. He sounded stuffy… and lost in that dream state again.

_This can't be good._

"Potter," he acknowledged, moving up to stand slightly behind and to the right of the boy. He was tapping his knee with his wand. Or – _a_ wand, in any case. Snape's breath caught as he realized that the boy was holding the Elder Wand in his wand hand, the holly and phoenix wand in the other. It occurred to him that Potter had said his holly wand had been broken – in the fight with Nagini, in Godric's Hollow.

He let out a shaky breath. So – he _had _used the Elder Wand, then. He didn't know why, but the thought shook him, frightened him, as if Potter had crossed a threshold by allowing himself to use it, even for that. A third wand was stuck, absurdly, behind the boy's ear. Draco's then. The boy had all three wands on him – his own, the hawthorn wand, the Elder Wand – though… both the Elder Wand and the hawthorn had been Draco's, Snape realized. The thought was reassuring for some reason, easing tension in his shoulders a bit. He allowed himself to breathe.

"May I join you?" he asked.

Potter waved to the patch of grass next to him, and Snape folded his long form down to sit next to the boy, his back against the broad tree, his position a mirror of the boy's. They sat in silence for a while, Potter clutching the holly wand in his left hand, idly tapping his knee with the Elder Wand, held lightly, almost casually, in his right. Snape wished he would stop, and stifled the urge to grab at the boy's wrist, unwilling to do anything to startle him.

He turned his gaze from Potter to the three graves – Fred, Lupin, Tonks. There were flowers growing in front of each headstone. Someone must have planted them there, and he wondered if it had been Potter, or if the Weasleys had done it before they left for the Burrow. That made his heart ache, so that he sat some minutes willing the pain to go away. It didn't. He realized he was holding his breath against tears that threatened to fall if he exhaled. He allowed himself to breathe. _They deserve at least that much from me._

"I miss them," Potter said at his side.

It took several moments for Snape to work around the lump in his throat and the hippogriff sitting on his chest, before he could work out, "I do too."

Potter nodded, accepting that without question.

"If you could bring them back, would you?" the boy asked.

"I would do anything…" Snape said automatically. Then he realized what the boy meant, and swallowed spasmodically. But… _he has to work that out for himself._

"Do you know what happens when you die, Professor?" Potter asked in that dreamy, vague, not-quite-here tone he had used when he thought Snape might fight him for possession of the Elder Wand.

Snape suddenly pictured the boy straddling some line, caught between life and death, not quite here, not quite there. It frightened and saddened him, so that his heart labored against his chest again, and he wondered if he would live if Potter died… chose death. He pulled his other knee up to match the first, and laced his arms across them, so conscious of the boy next to him it almost hurt. It did hurt.

"Tell me," he said gently.

The boy was silent for a long time, then raised a hand to wave off an insect buzzing at the ear closest to Snape. That seemed to loosen the words stuck in his throat.

"When Voldemort killed me…"

Snape's heart thudded painfully.

"… I… it was all sort of… grayish white, like clouds… and there was a piece of Voldemort there. It must have been the horcrux… the piece of his soul he put in me without meaning to."

Potter shivered despite the warmth of the day. Snape stifled the urge to put an arm around the boy, fearful that it would interrupt the telling. _I have to let him tell the whole of it. He needs to do this. _He calmed himself, emptying his mind, focusing only on the boy, and… the boy let him in… or drew him in, it hardly mattered which.

He saw the raw, bleeding thing that was the bit of Voldemort's mutilated soul, felt Potter's revulsion and pity as if it were his own. The boy held nothing back.

_Let there be no secrets between us…_

Snape felt the boy's transient awareness that he was naked… then clothed… saw the world appear, partial and indistinct, around him.

_Harry, you wonderful boy. You brave, brave man…_

He walked and sat with Potter and Dumbledore as they talked.

_I've got to go back, haven't I?_

_If you decided not to go back, you would be able to… let's say… board a train._

_And where would it take me?_

_On._

_Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and above all, those who live without love…_

Somewhere in Potter's telling, Snape had begun to cry. He only knew that because his eyes burned, his face was wet, and he had buried his head in his arms. He didn't know if it was his connection with the boy, if they were the boy's tears he was shedding or his own, but it did not matter. His shoulders shook with it, and he was startled to feel the boy's warm hand on his back, rubbing gently up and down, stopping just under one of the still-tender spots where Nagini had bitten down to bone.

"I should have been there…" Snape exhaled on a half-sob, half-sigh. "I should have stopped him." Not that he knew how he would have accomplished that. But no – he had been dying in the Shack when the boy most needed him. "I should have been there for you."

"You were, Professor."

Snape shook his head, unwilling for the boy to smooth this over so easily.

"You were," the boy insisted. "Before I went into the forest, my mum and dad, and Sirius and Remus… they were there, and they protected me – right up to the last minute."

Snape could see it, the boy drawing him into his memory once more.

"And even though I didn't see you, you were there, too… like your Patronus in the Forest of Dean… I think you were there, somehow, a part of my mum, and my dad… a part of Remus and even a part of Sirius. Because I felt safe, like I felt that night in the forest. I knew it would be okay. I think you _were_ there for me."

The images that the boy held of his parents, of Sirius and Lupin, reverberated between them, blending with the images that Snape held of them in his heart and memory, so that they became more real – to both of them. Snape held his breath, wishing it had been so – that he had been there for the boy. He so wanted the boy to be _safe… safe… safe…_ and that desire also echoed between them, a bit of truth.

"I wonder if they're there – at the station," the boy said. "Remus and Tonks, I mean." He looked around as if he would see them. "And the house elf and the townspeople. Do you think house elves go to the same place, Professor?" He did not stop for Snape's answer. "I hope so… I hope we're all together, after…"

The boy sighed. Snape thought he would drown in the pain of it, his pain, and Potter's.

They sat a long while, neither of them saying anything, Snape's heart aching with the loss of Fred and Remus and even Tonks, with her clumsiness and her absurd faces… and each of the other fifty-one defenders, his mind adding Charity, and Dobby, and Mad-Eye, and even Dumbledore, he realized, to the list. The two of them sat shoulder to shoulder, caught between it, in that moment – between life and death, as if they both sat in King's Cross Station, deciding whether to board the train and go on, or whether to go back.

Potter sighed softly beside him. "I have to let them go, don't I?" he asked. "I can't see Remus hanging around King's Cross waiting… I have to let him go on. And Fred – he might wait for George, but… that's his choice, isn't it? I can't make it for him. I can't be selfish. And there's Ron and Hermione and George… and the rest of the Weasleys… and McGonagall, and Hagrid…"

Snape realized the boy was crying. Not noisily, just tears running freely down his face.

"I have to come back, don't I? For them."

"Yes," Snape breathed. And he knew it was a prayer.

They sat in silence some more. Then he turned to look at the boy. He could see it in the boy's face, could see him letting go. He turned to look at the three graves in front of them, his own reluctance pulling at his heart – he missed them so. But – the boy was right. They had – _he had_ – to let them go – Remus and Tonks and Fred… and Dumbledore, Charity, Lily and James. He had to let them go… let them go on… and – this was surprisingly, unexpectedly, intensely painful – _he _had to go on, too, not into death, but into life.

He saw it on Potter's face as he realized it himself – the same reluctance to let go, the same reluctance not to follow, really… the same realization that the hardest choice was to live, to go on living, to feel the loss and go on… to know more loss would come, eventually, and to bear that incredible bitter-sweetness of life and of love. He saw Potter choose, resolve it, and he felt his own heart follow, willingly, determinedly, as Potter finally _chose _life. He put out a hand and rested a hand, awkwardly, on the boy's back.

They sat there for a long while. Loss, regret, and guilt warred with love and his ever ongoing need to keep the boy safe… fought it out inside him, and some of it inside the boy, he suspected. Potter kept wiping at his nose with his sleeve, until Snape finally pulled a pocket square from his robe and handed it to the boy, who took it without a word, then sat shredding it between his knees. Snape let it be.

Finally, Potter's sniffles slowed. Snape gave him a little shake, then removed his hand from the boy's shoulder. "Come on," he said, "Let's get some lunch, Potter." Potter's protest was overridden by the growl from his stomach. Snape wondered if he had actually eaten breakfast. _Well, nor did I. _He gave the boy another moment to collect himself.

Snape groaned as his straightened out his legs, stiff from holding one position for far too long, especially as he was not yet fully recovered. Potter got to his feet more easily, and reached a hand down to help him up. Snape growled a denial, then had to accept the boy's steadying hand when he nearly lost his balance, putting an arm out to catch himself on the tree.

The boy let go once he was sure Snape was standing firmly, but Snape reached out an arm and put it around the boy's shoulders, and together, they headed back to the castle.

* * *

_That was Chapter 14 of 30. Continuing..._


	16. Mundungus Fletcher

Time out for a bit of history: I wrote this story inspired by the amazingness that was the Magic is Might Experience, which was a Facebook-mediated, structured role play that covered all of Book 7 from January 2011 until July 2011 - the week before the premiere of DH2. During that time, Dung and I became friends of a sort, and he's actually not a bad guy. So... Here's to you, Dung. I still owe you a drink! Love, Carol

**Disclaimer:** J.K. Rowling's world... characters... spells and the like. My plot. No galleons involved. Feedback is gratefully accepted Mondays through Fridays from 9 to 5. Joking. Just feed the owls, would you? Otherwise they get snippy by the time they get to me.

* * *

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER

Potter did not question Snape's suggestion they head back to Hogsmeade. They first walked back to Snape's quarters to gather light summer traveling cloaks. Snape suggested the boy bring the invisibility cloak. He watched as Potter locked two of the three wands in the trunk, now set against a wall, and noted his anxious look back as he left the room.

Snape put out a hand to stop the boy, and stepped past him into the room. He paced the room's perimeter clockwise, trailing a hand along the wall. When he arrived back at the door, he made a complicated series of elegant motions with his wand hand, and snapped his fingers. Potter watched curiously. As they left Snape's quarters, he stopped the boy again, repeated the elegant gesture and the snap, his lips moving soundlessly in concentration, due to being somewhat distracted by the boy's intent gaze. Then he turned and gestured to Potter to follow him.

"You were…" The boy waved a hand, looking for the right word.

"Warding our space, yes," Snape said, missing the startled half-smile that flitted across the boy's face. "It keeps out intruders – rather more effectively than a lock, especially with people around like the Weasley twins… or a certain trio…" He looked at Potter meaningfully and the boy grinned. "It also keeps out house elves, even the headmaster or headmistress. Only the wizard who sets it or those he keys to it can enter once the ward is set."

"What happens if someone else tries?"

"That depends on how the ward is set. It might repel, Obliviate, or even kill the intruder, with or without warning."

The boy gulped. "And… how did you set this one, Sir?"

Snape looked at him without answering, and the boy turned pale.

"Don't worry, Potter. No one will intrude."

"Did you… did you set a warning, Sir?" The boy asked. Snape nodded, and he relaxed.

"For house elves and ghosts. No one else."

"But what if Professor McGonagall…"

"Professor McGonagall is familiar with both this spell and my signature. Furthermore, she is familiar with my habits, which have been to ward my space… for obvious reasons. And she is in London. It is unlikely she would return early without sending word."

The boy paced at his side for a few moments. "You said Professor McGonagall knows your 'signature', Professor."

"Yes."

"Explain," he said, not quite a demand, and Snape was struck by the realization that the wizard at his side had grown immeasurably the past year… was nearly a man. _How could he not be?_

"Magic leaves traces," he said. "If you have met a wizard or witch and seen them work even the barest spell, if you know what to look for, you can identify their… unique signature, for lack of a better term."

The boy thought some moments. "That's why I recognized your Patronus," he said. "I knew it was familiar… and safe… but I couldn't put my finger on it. I just didn't think it could be…"

The word _safe _echoed between them again, making Snape's heart ache, though not nearly as much as before, leaving a rather warm imprint.

Snape hesitated, thinking before responding to the boy's observation. "I imagine you were more likely to recognize it because of our… Occlumency… lessons…" he ended on a sardonic note.

"Maybe," Potter mused, though he sounded uncertain.

"It's not usually a skill one finds in someone your age. In fact, it's quite a rare skill altogether. Few witches or wizards acquire it, or learn to read another's signature unless they are bonded."

"Bonded?"

"Married… for all intents and purposes… or perhaps parent and child… in any case, in some kind of relationship that bonds them for life."

"But you and Professor McGonagall…" The boy turned shocked eyes on Snape, who rolled his eyes at the boy's insinuation.

"_All_ your teachers have that ability, Potter. Although I am not convinced that Trelawny or Firenze do… but as to the rest of us, it is a qualification of the Professorate. Among other things, it is useful for detecting unauthorized use of magic, though that is difficult when the castle is crowded, and nearly useless in terms of disciplinary purposes as students are so… intransigent." He narrowed his eyes at Potter meaningfully. The boy laughed then thought some more.

"Aurors."

Snape nodded approvingly.

"So… that's why we don't learn this stuff in school then, right?"

"That, and the fact that it would hardly do to teach twelve year olds how to set a killing ward."

Potter nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah…"

They walked on.

"Will you teach me?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"Why?"

Snape drew a breath and stopped. Potter stopped too, and faced him.

"For two reasons, Potter. One – you need it, if you're going to be stuck with that damned Elder Wand. And two…" He hesitated. "I trust you."

Potter dropped his eyes, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. "Thank you, Sir. I… I trust you, too."

Snape nodded. _That will do for now._

He turned and continued toward the gates, where he again hummed the spell to release them. They slipped through and he reset the wards, Potter watching him intently. "These are somewhat more complicated." He waved to indicate the castle grounds and the surrounding wall. "Protecting something as large as this is more difficult, due to size, terrain, and so on. We want to let animals in, but not animagi, for example. We have to not only keep Muggles out, but assure that they do not even perceive that we are here, which, while unlikely, can and does happen. It is more for their protection than for ours. Imagine your cousin wandering in, and you will see the difficulty."

Potter snorted.

As they approached the town, Snape drew the boy behind a tree and indicated he should don the invisibility cloak. Sighing over the necessity, he pulled it out and flipped it over himself. Once Snape confirmed he was fully covered, they continued up the road. The town was emptier this morning, some residents having left for the seaside to enjoy the mid-summer warmth. Those who did recognize Snape, which was anyone who looked up as he passed, nodded in a friendly way. His determined stride – shortened so that Potter could keep up – discouraged more than that, though he nodded back, for courtesy's sake. Conversation was awkward, interrupted as it was by anyone passing by, though one witch glanced at Snape, startled, when he responded to the boy's comment before he caught himself.

Stopping at each of the three establishments they had visited on their prior trip, Snape collected the items they'd ordered. Potter waited outside, dodging shoppers who wandered too close to where he stood, watching Snape through the windows. Proprietors again refused payment. On two occasions, Snape was able to surreptitiously leave the amount owed on the counters. On the third occasion, he finally got the proprietor to accept payment by pointing out that the man could donate to the Hogwarts scholarship fund if he so desired. "I'll do that, Professor. I'll do that. A marvelous suggestion!" the man had said, tears in his eyes, patting Snape's hand. Snape fought an urge to growl and snatch his hand back.

When they finally stepped into the Hog's Head, Potter pulled the invisibility cloak off, and Snape sighed in relief. Aberforth seemed to be expecting them. "There you are!" he said, his blue eyes twinkling as they walked in. He gestured with his chin at a table in the corner. "Dung, here, said he'd seen you slinking about town, Severus. I figured Potter would be with you. Let's sit and have a chin wag."

He led the way to the table at which Mundungus Fletcher sat, nursing a cold butterbeer. Snape and Potter followed reluctantly. Dung looked unusually… sober. He was clean shaven, for one thing, and his clothes were clean, if slightly rumpled. He had washed his hair, and his teeth were notably less yellow than usual. Even his hands were clean – right down to the fingernails. He looked up as they approached, flushed, and began to slide out of his chair. Aberforth put out a hand to stop him.

"No – sit, Dung. Bloody fools, the lot o' you!" he growled. "We're all on the same side here. Ever' one of us has fought hard, and ever' one of us has made mistakes. It's time we forgave each other and were friends."

Dung looked uncertain. Snape eyed him dubiously, but watched for Potter's response. The boy hesitated and looked at Aberforth. The barkeep raised an eyebrow pointedly, his hands on his hips, a damp bar rag hanging from one fist. Potter finally nodded and took the seat next to Mundungus. Snape pulled out a chair across from Dung – since Aberforth was standing solidly behind the one across from the boy. He set it down – rather harder than necessary – and slid into it gracefully, narrowing his eyes at Dung, who swallowed nervously and avoided looking at him. Aberforth growled and snapped his rag at Snape's shoulder. Snape jerked and cleared his expression, looking slightly guilty.

"That's better," Aberforth nodded. "Now you three just catch up while I grab us some grub." He waved his wand to lift Snape's packages to a bench along the wall.

Snape and Mundungus glared silently at each other across the table. Finally, Potter cleared his throat, startling both men out of their staring contest. "What… what's new, Dung?" he asked – rather lamely, Snape thought.

"Oh – I bin busy," he said, throwing a cautious look at Snape as he turned to the boy. Snape rolled his eyes. Dung squared his shoulders and went on rather more determinedly. "Arthur… Arthur Weasley got hisself promoted…"

Potter exclaimed in happy surprise at that.

"Yeah… he's in charge of Muggle Relations now, an' he asked me ter work fer 'im."

Snape snorted skeptically.

"I got me a respect'ble job now, I'll have yeh know," Dung said defensively.

"Doing what?" Snape sneered. "Supplying Arthur's ridiculous hobby of collecting and misusing Muggle artifacts?"

Potter 'accidentally' kicked Snape under the table. Snape flinched and his eyes flicked immediately to the boy, who was glaring at him. He had the grace to look guilty. "I apologize," he said stiffly, then relented. "That was uncalled for," he said with more sincerity.

Potter still glared and crossed his arms across his chest. Snape pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes at the boy.

"No – jus' so you know. Th' Muggle Relations Department needed someone who was more familiar wi' Muggle ways, an' Arthur hired me to consult an' show some o' th' new hires th' ropes of gettin' around in th' Muggle world. An' he got some o' me mates helpin' t' identify Muggles who were hurt by You-Know-Who an' his gang."

"Voldemort," Snape corrected, still irritated.

Dung swallowed. "Yeah – him," he said tightly, then squared his shoulders again. "Anyway, good t' see yeh, Harry. An' Severus… I was right pleased t' hear you recovered after that bloody snake attacked you… Arthur tol' us…"

Snape shifted uncomfortably.

"… that yeh were under cover th' whole time, an' that you din' really kill Dumbledore. Guess yeh were a good un all along. I was right happy to hear that," Dung said cheerfully, "lemme tell you. Alway' thought I could sniff out th' bad 'uns – on'y way t' save me own neck, y'know – gotta instinct fer that sort o' thing. Yeh never did have that stink."

"Thank you," Snape said dryly, noting Potter looking at him consideringly. "How are Arthur and Molly?" he asked Dung, to change the subject, bracing his shoulders at his own question. He caught the boy doing likewise.

Dung's face lengthened in sympathy and he sighed. "Wal… Molly'll never be th' same, Sev, t' tell th' truth, her young 'un gone an' all." The boy looked alarmed, but Dung went on before he could raise a question. "Fred were a good bloke."

Potter let out a small breath in relief at that, though his eyes threatened to tear up. Snape pressed his toes against the boy's shoes, and the boy looked up at him gratefully. Snape nodded and eased up on the pressure. Potter moved his foot to stay in touch with Snape's. Snape pretended not to notice, turning his eyes back to Dung.

"An' that twin o' his, 'course it's hardest on 'im."

"Understandable," Snape murmured, leaning his elbows on the table and tenting his fingers against his lips. He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

"But their youngest boy, he's gonna be helpin' young Georgie wif th' store 'n' all." Dung spoke approvingly, and Snape concurred, though he doubted George would find the youngest Weasley lad a suitable replacement for his twin. His heart twinged, and he looked down at the table.

Potter nodded, as if this was old news, so apparently he had indeed been getting post from his friends.

"An' Arthur… well, Kingsley's bin keepin' 'im busy. 'Work is magic,' I allus says."

Snape snorted softly. Aberforth, coming up behind him with a loaded tray, tapped the back of his head meaningfully, and Snape again looked suitably admonished. The older man eyed him as he laid a tray full of food and drink on the table between Snape and Dung, and Snape looked away. The boy watched that interplay with indecent fascination and curiosity, Snape thought, though he did not glare at the boy, mindful of Aberforth's eye on him.

He felt Potter studying him, and looked at the boy curiously. He could practically see Potter turning the interaction between him and Aberforth over in his mind. The boy must have suddenly figured out something that was puzzling him, because his mouth dropped open slightly and he looked from Snape to Aberforth and back again, then at Dung… his eyes continually swinging between the three men as they began filling their plates. A look of mild shock appeared on his face.

_Ah. _Snape rather thought he knew what it was the boy had calculated. He threw the boy a pointed glare and kicked his foot. The boy responded by glaring back challengingly.

"Figured it out, did you, Potter?"

The boy started at Aberforth's question. Snape turned a baleful eye on the older man, so like Dumbledore in looks but extremely unlike him in temperament. Aberforth was chuckling into his corned-beef-on-rye.

"Severus here is just a babe, i'n' he, Dung?" Aberforth laughed at Snape's huff of indignation. "What are you, Sev – all of forty?"

"Thirty-eight," Snape ground out sullenly, reaching for a sandwich and gesturing at Potter to eat, clearly embarrassed by the discussion.

Both Aberforth and Dung choked with laughter at that, and the boy grinned openly.

"I'm still old enough to be your father, you insolent boy!" Snape drawled, glaring at him.

All movement stilled at that. Snape shut his eyes. _Idiot!_

"Yeah," Potter said finally, amazement coloring his tone. "_Exactly_ old enough."

Snape opened his eyes, expecting… well, he didn't know what he was expecting. But he did not expect to see Potter's puzzlement turn to an amazed smile.

Aberforth began to chew his sandwich again. Dung elbowed the boy and nodded toward a bottle of ice-cold butterbeer, which Potter passed to him without a glance. He and Snape continued looking at each other across the table, the boy obviously still wrapping his mind around the fact that Snape was the same age as his father would have been.

Potter kept glancing at Snape throughout the meal, his face alternating rather fascinatingly between serious consideration, rejection, amusement and occasional shock as the implications of his revelation/realization kept hitting him. Though he again donned the invisibility cloak for the trip back through town and to Hogwarts, Snape imagined he could feel the boy staring at him the entire way. It made his shoulders itch uncomfortably. As they approached the gates, he could bear it no more.

"Would you _stop_ that, Potter?"

"It's '_Harry_', Professor," the boy said.

Snape could practically see the insolent grin that was apparent in the boy's voice. He waved his wand and hummed the sing-song spell that unlocked the gates to let them slip through, reset the protections, and turned to find Potter folding the invisibility cloak and grinning to himself. The boy turned to look at him, and Snape tried, but failed, to glare at the boy. The boy laughed and Snape indignantly sputtered something inaudible, which made the boy laugh all the harder, to the point where he was wiping tears from his eyes and holding onto his ribs as if they hurt. Snape folded his arms across his chest and glared, waiting for Potter to get over his ridiculous amusement. Each time Potter tried to stand up and look Snape in the face, he collapsed back into laughter. Snape struggled to maintain a dignified stance, which only set the boy off into more gales of laughter. Finally, exasperated, Snape turned to stalk off toward the school, leaving Potter to chase after him, chest still heaving.

"I fail to see what is so amusing, Potter."

The boy grinned, double-stepping to keep up with Snape's purposely lengthened stride. "It's just," he said past his laughter, "It's just… I always thought of you as _old_," he said, threatening to laugh again.

Snape "tsk'd" irritatedly.

"Ron and Hermione and me – we figured Dumbledore was about a hundred and fifty…"

Snape's lips twitched at that.

"… so I always just figured you – all of you, really – as _old_."

Snape looked at him disgustedly. "Exactly _how_ old, Potter?"

"I dunno – seventy?" and he started laughing again.

Snape hissed in exasperation, though he was trying to control the urge to laugh himself. "Arithmancy not your strong suit, Potter?"

"_Harry – _and no – Hermione took Arithmancy, but Ron and I never did."

"Yes – that would appeal to her."

"So… so you're thirty-eight, huh? Just like my dad… and my mum… and… and Lupin, he would be… and Sirius…" Potter's voice started out eager, but sobered as they walked, and Snape closed his eyes a moment in pain as the boy listed the people they had both lost. "Sirius… he… he seemed a lot younger than you and Remus, though," Potter observed, quietly.

Snape hesitated, turning to look at the boy as they climbed the slope to the main entrance. "Prison tends to either accelerate ones aging or arrest ones development. In your godfather's case, it did a bit of both, I think." He sighed. "He was there a long time." _For something he didn't do,_ he didn't say.

"Yeah… he was. I keep forgetting you all were the same age – you and Remus and Sirius and my parents," the boy said, absently, as they walked up the stone stairway to the large oak doors to the school.

"First years _are_ all eleven or twelve years old, you silly boy. And as we were classmates, I should think the fact that we would be the same age would be obvious."

"Yeah… obvious…" Potter nodded and they continued into the castle in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

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That was Chapter 15 of 30 - we're halfway through and already I don't want it to end. Keep going.


	17. Tom Riddle's Wand

**Disclaimer:** As always, Jo's world and characters, my plot. Thank you, Ms. Rowling, for letting them out to play. Come along now, children. And no - I am NOT taking money for this - not even for frozen pumpkin pops. Sorry.

Feedback is always welcomed, appreciated, and digested with the care it warrants. Thank you.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TOM RIDDLE'S WAND

The owls bearing replies to his letters arrived just after breakfast the next day, tapping at the window in hisquarters. Minerva's was a concerned query about whether he wanted her to return early. He sent that owl back immediately with his, "No need." Kingsley's contained two words: "Yes. Ollivander." Arthur's was even shorter: "Come." He returned Kingsley's owl with a request that the Minister arrange some things, and Arthur's with "On our way."

The boy had gone to the kitchen to visit the house elves. He returned shortly after Snape sent off his replies, knocking at Snape's door. _I'll have to set a password for him,_ Snape thought, crossing the room to let him in. Potter looked around, obviously still expecting to see Snape's things from McGonagall's office. Snape diverted him with a question.

"Up to another trip?"

"Where?" Potter began, then spotted the owl posts in Snape's hands. He paled. "Did you – did Kingsley find it?"

Snape nodded, drawing the boy into the room and pushing him toward a chair at the table.

"Where is it?"

"Ollivander's."

"Ollivander? He's… his… what's he doing with it?"

"Reselling it, I imagine. It's not uncommon," he said at Potter's appalled splutter, "if the witch or wizard dies without an heir or has not been disciplined, in which case it would have been snapped."

"He'd _do_ that? How could he _do_ that? After what…" the boy said, shocked.

Snape crossed his arms and leaned back against the table next to Potter, looking down at him, considering the boy's question seriously. "It has always been my opinion that Ollivander… sees these matters differently than do most wizards. I don't know if that is a peculiarity of his profession, if his view would be shared by other wandcrafters, or if it is merely a peculiarity of his own personality."

Potter snorted.

"You have a different opinion?"

"Not really. He always gave me the creeps a little… I mean," the boy hurried to add, "I'm sure he's brilliant… but I was never sure if I liked him."

Snape nodded. "Indeed. In any case, it is to Ollivander's we must go if we hope to find… that damned wand."

"And then what?" the boy asked, meeting Snape's eyes. "What if it _is_…"

"Potter…"

"Harry," the boy corrected him, absently.

"_Potter_ – I've told you, it's not possible."

"I'm sorry, Professor, but do we even _know_ what's possible – with Voldemort, I mean?"

Snape conceded that the boy had a point. He did not want to lie to the boy, but did want to reassure him. "Then, Potter, I shall deal with it," he said, reaching for his robe, thrown over the chair he had been sitting in that morning.

"_You?_ But – no! Sir - it should be me!" Potter protested, and Snape paused mid-reach.

"Absolutely not. I forbid it," he said, alarmed.

"I'm sorry, sir, but – you're not my professor anymore," the boy responded.

_A fine time for him to pull that out._

"If you think I am going to allow you…" he began.

"I _wasn't_ _asking _permission_,_ Professor."

"Nonetheless, Potter…"

"It's _Harry_, sir, and if there's a risk, _I'll_ handle it!"

"_How?_" Snape dared him flatly. When the boy stared at him, open mouthed, mid-protest, he continued.

"Use the Elder Wand? No?" he said when the boy paled. "I thought not. Carry the Sword of Gryffindor with you? That would be subtle. I may not be your professor, Potter, but if you do not heed me on this, I shall have Kingsley or Arthur…"

"No!" Potter protested in a strangled voice. "No… okay… I'll let you handle it."

But Snape could see that the boy was lying, already planning to snatch the wand out from under Snape's nose the moment he had the chance. He folded his arms and glared at the boy, who reddened.

"You do not have to save the world, Mr. Potter," he growled. _You've already done that,_ he finished silently. More gently, he said, "Let someone else play hero for once, will you? Now, get your travel robe and your cloak."

It took bare seconds for Potter to do so. While he was out of the room, Snape gestured at the door. As the boy left his room, he flicked a gesture at the boy's door as well. As Potter was throwing on his robe, he did not note the movement. The boy headed toward the door to the hallway, but Snape snapped his fingers to get his attention and gestured to the fireplace. Potter looked at him, confused. "We'll travel by floo. I assume you have done so before, returning to school after the holidays?"

The boy nodded, though he looked reluctant.

"The key is to be quite specific regarding your destination, and to enunciate clearly."

The boy nodded again.

"Fine. We shall be going to Diagon Alley. The other end is a floo connection in the back of Florean Fortescue's Ice-cream Parlor."

The boy raised his eyebrows.

"It has been reopened under new management. The new owner has retained the name."

The boy still looked hesitant.

"Discretion, Potter, often requires the mundane. Your destination is Florean Fortescue's. Is that clear?"

Potter nodded.

"Very well. I will precede you to be sure it is safe at the other end. You will follow after twenty seconds have passed, unless I return or send a message. Understood?"

Another nod. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Did you… is our…"

"Our space is warded, as is your room. I trust the Elder wand is within." He narrowed his eyes at the boy meaningfully, but as the boy had had no reason to expect they were going anywhere today, there would have been no reason to remove it from his trunk earlier, and he had not been in his room long enough to search his trunk."

In answer, Potter pulled his holly wand from his left sleeve and held it on his open palm. It was Snape's turn to nod. He handed the boy a box, within which were several handfuls of fine green floo powder. He turned to the fireplace, stepped in, tossed down a handful of dust and calmly enunciated, "Florean Fortescue's," disappearing in a flash of green smoke.

The endpoint of his journey, after a sickening swirl that he had learned to ignore, came into view within moments. He stepped out of the fireplace, facing a simple sign identifying the stop. A discrete screen shielded the fireplace from the rest of the room, which was a storeroom filled with the sweet smell of Fortescue's famous confections. He spared a moment to glance around it and through an open door to the soda shop beyond, before turning back. Seconds later, Potter stepped from the fireplace. Snape gestured to him, and the boy pulled his invisibility cloak from under his robe, and threw it over himself.

Snape nodded when he saw the boy's feet disappear as the boy adjusted the robe for full coverage. He felt the boy's tug on his arm, indicating he was ready, and they set out through the crowded dining area, Potter so close on his heels he could feel the boy's toes against his boots.

Snape would have preferred to keep his head down, but he needed to pick his way through the streets with care to adjust for the boy's presence at his elbow. It made for slow going, their progress more awkward by the fact that, while many shoppers and residents hurried by on their own errands, others stopped in shocked recognition.

_What in Merlin's name…?_

"Congratulations, Professor!" one wizard Snape had never seen before said, grabbing his hand, pumping his arm enthusiastically. Snape shook his head in confusion. The man's eyes moistened and he patted Snape's arm. _Patted him! _"Good man," he said, then shook his head admiringly, gave Snape's hand a final squeeze, and walked off the way Snape and Potter had just come.

"What was that about?" Potter whispered into his ear.

"No idea," Snape murmured back, as mystified as the boy.

They were stopped three more times on their way to their destination. Each time, the witch or wizard proffered congratulations, and the witch breathlessly requested Snape's autograph. Utterly befuddled, he stared at her in confusion, and she backed off, saying, "I'm so sorry, Professor. How rude of me! Of course…" but she looked at him with tear-filled, adoring eyes. Snape shook his head as she walked off, looking back at him over her shoulder, smiling.

Potter was obviously as bewildered as Snape was. "You seem to have a fan club, Professor," he said, choking back a laugh. Snape growled at him to be quiet and sped up, leaving Potter to squawk in protest and grab at the back of his robe.

They reached the shop with, thankfully, no further interruptions, and pushed open the door into the small, slightly dusty space. A bell over the door tinkled lightly. Potter went to pull off the invisibility cloak. Snape, feeling that movement, put out a hand. "Wait." Potter did as he was told.

There was the sound of a library ladder rolling toward them on rails set between the stacks of shelves, and a thin, wrinkle-faced, white-haired man with large, liquid-silver eyes came into view.

"Ah!" he said. "I was wondering when I would be seeing you, Professor." His odd eyes searched the area at Snape's back, but he said nothing. He climbed down from his ladder, circled the counter, and went to the door, slipping the lock closed and pulling down the shade. Waving a hand, he lowered the shades over the display window as well, then turned toward Snape in the darkened room.

"Mr. Potter," he said. "It is safe to come out now."

Snape felt the boy's hesitation, but when he nodded, he heard the soft slither of cloth falling from the boy's head, and shortly the two of them stood side by side, facing the proprietor.

"Mr. Ollivander!" the boy said, "It's good to see you, sir!"

The man's eyes took in Potter's face, and shone with tears. "It is good to see you as well, Mr. Potter," he whispered. Then he shook himself and moved behind his counter. "I received an owl from the Minister," he said.

"And?" Snape said, eyeing the man.

"You must know that many, many wands were lost or broken in the battle…"

Snape nodded. "Are you…"

Ollivander cut him off. "No. Not the wand you seek," he said. "Others were, of course, confiscated and broken on order of the Wizengamot." He licked his lips and the two wizards waited tensely. "Where a wand is neither broken nor conquered…" His eyes shifted to Potter's, then back to Snape's. "… yet its wizard or witch themselves lost, we look for an heir."

Snape nodded, his dark eyes compelling the man on. Ollivander licked his lips again, nervously.

"Lacking an heir…" He paused. "Lacking an heir, the wand is typically returned to the seller… and held pending adoption by another wizard."

Snape hesitated, then nodded. "Understood. And… this _particular _wand?"

"Is still awaiting adoption."

Snape heard Potter exhale. His own heart was thumping against his ribs. "Get it," he ordered flatly.

Ollivander nodded. His eyes never left Snape's as he backed into the space between two tall sets of shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with long, thin blue boxes.

"Professor," Potter whispered urgently.

"Potter."

"What if…"

"Not to worry, Potter."

The boy's shaky hand went to the counter and he grabbed at its edge.

"Steady, Potter. I've got this."

"No! Professor – I…"

But Ollivander appeared suddenly, silent as a cat, holding a box in his hands. He placed it on the counter before them, his hands trembling with age… or fear… or perhaps as a result of the torture he endured this past year at Malfoy Manor.

"Open it," Snape ordered.

Ollivander looked up at him without moving.

"Open it," he repeated more softly.

The wandcrafter shifted his gaze to Potter's face and swallowed. He reached out a trembling hand, lifted the cover off the box, and folded back the blue paper that covered the wand that lay within.

There it was – the long, thin stick of yew, hooked at the haft end, in a bit of cruel irony, in the shape of a phoenix's talon. Potter was trembling liberally now. Snape fought the urge to be sick, his stomach protesting violently as unbidden images of a long, thin white hand raising the wand to humiliate, torture, kill some poor wizard or witch or child filled his memory. His spine chilled and his wounds ached. _Dinner, Nagini._

Potter moved beside him, put out a hand…

"_No!_" Snape's hand intercepted the boy's before he could touch the cursed thing. He grabbed the boy's wrist. "_No_, Potter," he commanded, turning to the boy, and the boy stopped, his habit of obedience still too strong, for the moment, to overcome the hard look on Snape's face. He looked up at Snape, his face nearly bloodless. _I know exactly how you feel, _Snape thought, grimly.

The boy continued to stare at him, his chest rising and falling in near panic. Snape released the boy, and reached for the wand, his own hand shaking barely less than the boy's – _perhaps more_. However, if there was a risk to run, much as he thought his knowledge of wand lore was accurate, _he_ would bloody well run it, not Potter. He lifted the wand out of the box, past the boy's head. The boy flinched and froze, his eyes fixed on Snape's, sweat forming on his upper lip. He swallowed.

_Breathe, Potter, _Snape thought at him_._ However, the boy continued to hold his eyes, unbreathing.

Snape pulled the wand down in front of his chest, level with Potter's eyes. Though his fingers twitched and he imagined he could feel the vestiges of Voldemort's hand on the yew wood, making him swallow sickly at the bile trying to force its way up his gullet, the wand felt like any other wand – a mere bit of wood, a stick… _not __his__ stick, thank Merlin and all the gods…_ a tool that thankfully lay inert in his hand.

The boy kept his eyes on Snape's, fear turning his eyes, once again, to black seas of dread. Snape raised his other hand to grasp the wand's tip, slid both hands slowly toward the wand's middle, as if fighting an _Impedimenta_ spell. When the tips of his index fingers met, he stopped. He kept his eyes on Potter's and some bit of understanding passed between them. They ran this risk together. Ollivander inhaled sharply across the counter from them. But without inhaling, without exhaling, without breathing at all, Snape snapped the yew wand, Voldemort's wand, _Tom Riddle's_ wand in two. The boy and the wandcrafter jerked as if at the crack of someone disapparating, but still Potter's wide eyes never left Snape's, and Ollivander's never left the boy's.

Snape moved his hands apart, still level with Potter's eyes. The thin red feather joining the pieces slipped out, making a soft ripping sound, and fell slowly to the floor, drifting out of both wizards' peripheral vision. Without looking down, he stepped forward, holding the boy's gaze, and ground it to dust underfoot. Then he snapped each half one more time, for good measure, replaced them in the box, and slapped the lid closed. Still maintaining eye contact with the boy, he thrust the box back at Ollivander, who grabbed at it, swallowing convulsively.

He and Potter stood there the space of five heartbeats, looking at each other, and began to breathe.

"That will be fifteen galleons, ten sickles, Mr. Potter," Mr. Ollivander murmured, holding out one hand, never moving his liquid silver eyes from Potter's face.

Without moving his own gaze from the boy's, Snape reached into his pocket and paid the man. "Thank you for your assistance," he said. Ollivander nodded numbly and watched as the two wizards turned and left the shop.

c

Once outside, Potter took a deep, shaky breath. Snape put his hand on the boy's shoulder to steady him, and he felt the boy slowly relax. "All right, Potter?"

"Yes, sir, but… could we get out of here?"

Snape nodded. "You'd best put on that cloak of yours, or we'll never get down the street," he suggested. The boy nodded and complied.

"Where are we going now?"

"I need to get some things… and you need to visit Gringotts, if memory serves."

The boy strangled out a protest.

"You'll have to go eventually, Potter. Best get it over with. As I told you, the goblins of Gringotts bear you no ill will."

"But…"

"You'll need your galleons, Mr. Potter. I'll not be supporting trips to Honeydukes the rest of the summer."

"Ah…"

"Come." Snape took off through the crowd, and the boy had no choice but to follow. He headed for the tall, pillared, white edifice at the juncture of two streets, pausing occasionally to attempt to skirt people who seemed determined to delay him with a handshake or a pat on the back. _Merlin! He __hated__ being patted! _He didn't understand it. Both he and Potter were grimly silent by the time they reached the steps of the bank. That seemed to help, actually, as Snape's forbidding glare cut down on the number of interruptions.

As they climbed the steps, Snape observed that there were two goblins stationed at the entrance, armed with long, thin metallic probity probes, scanning everyone who entered. Security was still tight then. Reasonable, as there were Death Eaters and Snatchers still at liberty and on the run. He continued, unconcerned, until Potter tugged at the back of his robe.

"Professor," the boy whispered.

"Not to worry, Potter," he muttered.

"But…"

"It's _handled_, Potter. Keep walking," he said, barely moving his lips.

The boy kept silent. Snape walked up to the entrance and nodded at the two guards. The one on the right simply nodded back. The one of the left appeared slightly shocked. "Mr. Snape!" he said. The first goblin hissed at him, and he responded, "Of course! Welcome to Gringott's. If you don't mind, Sir…" and passed the probe over Snape front and back. He peered at Snape and then around him as if looking for something, which he apparently did not find.

"_Thank_ _you_," Snape said meaningfully, and the goblin started and said, "Of course – of course – go right in!" Snape could hear the other goblin hiss at the first in Gobbledygook, apparently admonishing him, though with Gobbledygook one never could be sure.

Potter trod at his heels, clinging to his robe through the invisibility cloak. "Sir," he whispered.

"Quiet," Snape muttered. Potter hushed. Snape led him to the tall counter behind which sat a rather young-looking – for goblins – teller. "Vault 687," he said when the goblin looked up.

The goblin looked at him steadily and said, "And does Mr. Potter have his key?"

"No," Snape ground out. "Did not the Minister…"

A second, older goblin hurried over. "Gornak, I shall assist Mr. Snape," he said. "Professor, if you will follow me…" and he led Snape to one of the many doors that led from the atrium to the vaults. The boy had been through this particular door only a couple of times, one of which was on his first visit to the bank, with Hagrid. This time, however, the goblin turned to a second door just inside the first and gestured Snape inside, holding the door open several seconds after Snape entered.

Once inside, Snape said, "Potter," by which the boy clearly understood he was to remove the cloak. His head appeared, followed by his body. The goblin appeared unsurprised.

"You will need a new key, Mr. Potter," he said, circling a desk to sit in a chair, getting down to business unconcernedly. The boy nodded. "Your vault number has changed."

"Why?" Potter asked, frowning.

The goblin looked up at him. "Even the goblins know you are special, Mr. Potter. Your vault has been moved to a high-security area. The door will be keyed to you. You may have it keyed to no more than two others at any given time, and you may alter those others only with advanced notice to the bank, so that one of us may accompany you and witness the change. Do you understand?"

"Oh – yeah…" the boy said. "Can Professor Snape…?"

The goblin flashed his eyes to Snape's face, though Snape was shaking his head at the boy.

"I'm sure Arthur or…"

"I'll do him, too, but would you do it, please? Then… then you can get money for me if I need it… so I don't have to be…"

Snape suddenly realized the boy had been more affected by the difficulty of their trek down the street than he had let on. He didn't blame him.

"Certainly, Potter, if you wish it."

The boy heaved a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, the goblin had been fiddling with a contraption on a counter behind the desk. Two small golden keys appeared on a velvet-lined tray. He picked up the tray and held it out to the boy. "Touch just one, if you please, Mr. Potter. It will attune itself to you at your touch."

The boy picked up the closer of the two keys and fingered it curiously.

"Mr. Snape," the goblin said, holding the tray out. Snape picked up the key and felt a warm tingle, which faded rapidly. He slipped it into a pocket of his robe.

The goblin handed Potter a long bit of chain, perhaps twenty-two inches in length. "Best wear it around your neck for the ride," he said. Potter threaded the key onto the chain and slipped it over his head, tucking it under his shirt.

The ride to Potter's new vault was uneventful, if the mad careening around corners, over chasms filled with red glows and the roars of what could only have been dragons could be ignored. Potter's face tightened as he heard the dragons roar. Snape felt himself in agreement: it was one thing he did not like about the bank, disapproving of chaining the beasts underground, out of the sun and the free air. However, there was no doubt that the method of protecting high security vaults was effective, and as he had no better solution, he put it out of his mind.

However, the boy was clearly distressed when the goblin took out metal disks that clanked and echoed loudly in the depths of the cavern, backing the dragon at this level down a tunnel so that they could approach the boy's new vault. The goblin made a complicated series of motions at the door, and indicated that Potter, then Snape, should press their palm against it. Another series of moves apparently completed the keying of the door. At the goblin's prodding, Potter put his key in the keyhole and palmed the door just to the right, and it dissolved, allowing them entrance.

Stacks of galleons, sickles and knuts greeted them, along with a few small objects that were too deep in the cavern to identify. The boy did not appear to notice these, or perhaps he knew what they were and did not need to look. Snape realized he had let out a small breath of relief, and was momentarily puzzled by that, until his eyes flicked to Potter's tattered clothing. _He has enough,_ he thought, and realized he had feared the boy was impoverished.

_But that makes no sense, _he realized. The boy's father had come from a well-to-do, if not wealthy, family, and surely he would have left the boy an inheritance. He found himself wondering why the boy did not dress better or own better belongings. His brooms had been his only extravagance, and those had been gifts – from McGonagall, and then from Black. Another way he had misjudged the boy, he realized, and shook his head.

Potter caught that movement and reddened, misunderstanding. Snape did not know how to fix that, so he merely gestured at the boy to take what he needed. He did so – conservatively, Snape noted.

To Snape's surprise, his own vault had also been moved, and they repeated the process. When he asked the boy to be his second, the boy balked, confused. "I need a second, Potter, in case it is not convenient for me to get to my vault. As Professor McGonagall is not here, you will do, for now," he said quietly. The boy nodded at that, and the goblin completed the keying procedure.

Snape's vault was nearly as full as Potter's, not because he had been wealthy – to the contrary, he had been distressingly poor, or at least neglected, as a child – but because his needs were simple and his only extravagance had been his special potion instruments, books and antiques. He saved nearly his entire salary, having inherited Spinner's End from his parents, years earlier. If his solicitor concluded its sale, his stash would be significantly larger.

His vault held not only stacks of galleons, sickles and knuts, but – apparently to the boy's surprise – Muggle money. The boy looked at him curiously, but Snape chose not to comment. He took rather more of his savings than was his usual wont. Having concluded their business, they took the cart back to the surface and exited the bank, Potter once again donning the invisibility cloak with a sigh before they exited the tunnel to the atrium.

The boy looked almost as nauseous as Snape felt after the careening tram ride, which led Snape to conclude neither of them had fully recovered from their trials. Making a mental note to do something about that, Snape led Potter once more through the streets, this time heading toward a small eatery frequented by few wizards, due to the preponderance of Muggle offerings on the menu.

They stepped inside. In the only occupied booth, two heads were bent toward each other in conversation. Potter gasped and yanked off the cloak just as the two looked up.

"Professor!"

"_Harry!"_

"_RON! HERMIONE!" _The boy's friends practically tripped over each other in their eagerness to get to him, grabbing him in fierce hugs and pounding him on the back. All three had tears in their eyes and grins on their faces. Granger was crying openly, unashamedly.

"Oh, Harry, how _are _you?" she asked, hugging him repeatedly.

"You look… peaky, mate!" the Weasley boy said in concern. He glanced at Snape almost accusingly. Snape lifted his chin and glared down at the boy.

"Professor!" Granger exclaimed. Snape approached and the blasted girl _hugged _him, then pulled back, red-faced, but smiled up at him tearfully.

"Miss Granger. It's good to see you looking so well," he said, only slightly less stiffly than usual, but her smile widened.

"You too, Professor!"

"Mr. Weasley," he nodded, peering rather more closely at the pale face under the ginger hair.

They both looked… older, and though their happiness at seeing Potter was clear, equally evident were the traces of grief and the physical scars from what they had been through – in the battle, at Malfoy Manor, and during their year on the run. Snape had a sudden urge to put his arms around them all, which he suppressed with surprising difficulty, gripping his cloak instead, to control himself.

The proprietor entered from a door to the back room, breaking the tableau of the four looking at each other. Granger and Weasley drew the newcomers to the booth they had appropriated. Weasley pulled Potter to sit next to him. Granger slid to the wall and gestured Snape to sit next to her, which he did somewhat uncomfortably.

"What are you doing here?" Potter asked, drinking in his best mates, grinning. "It's _so _good to see you! I've missed you so much!" Tears threatened to breach the boy's defenses. Granger wiped her own eyes, and Weasley's continued to gleam wetly. Snape pressed on the boy's foot. Potter looked up, gulped, and nodded.

"Dad got a letter from the professor saying you'd be coming. Sna – er – the professor asked us to come meet you!" Weasley explained, looking from Potter to Snape. "Didn't you know?"

"No!" Potter said, grinning from Snape to Ron and back again. "Thanks, Professor! That was brilliant!" He was practically giddy, Snape thought, and found himself relaxing at the boy's obvious happiness.

Granger and Weasley had apparently discussed what topics were "off limits", because they kept up a lively chatter throughout the odd Muggle meal, which they ordered for the four of them. Snape turned up his nose at the bubbly, syrupy caffeinated drink the younger wizards seemed to enjoy, and left his drink order to "Water, please". The waiter seemed to understand, because he returned shortly with an ice-cold butterbeer, which Snape gratefully sipped, its smooth buttery taste soothing the last of his stomach upset from the bloody tram ride.

Potter requested, and Snape granted, permission to wander the streets with his friends, though Snape suggested he keep the invisibility cloak at hand, and that they rendezvous halfway through the afternoon at Flourish and Blotts'. Snape would be going to Obscurus' Books, Potage's Cauldrons, Scribbulus' Writing Instruments, and the apothecary, so he would be quite busy himself.

When Potter asked him to pick up ingredients for Dreamless Sleep Draught, Snape nodded, but he waved aside the galleons Potter pulled from his pocket. "Go spend it on something else," he suggested. "A new broom, perhaps," and the boy's eyes lit up.

"I don't have enough money on me for that, though," the boy said.

Snape shrugged. "Sign for it. They'll send to Gringotts for payment."

"I can do that? I didn't know that!"

"As you are of age, Potter…"

"Wow. Thanks, Professor!" Potter said, and Snape nodded, his lips twitching.

He looked up to find Weasley eyeing him in confusion, and Granger's eyes moist again. He raised an eyebrow at them, and Weasley shrugged and Granger shook her head and smiled at him. Shortly thereafter, he took his leave of the three young wizards, and left them planning their afternoon's itinerary.

Two hours later, having arranged for delivery of his purchases, he sat outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, scratching notes in the margins of _Magical Draughts and Potions: Advanced Theory and Practical Applications_ with a self-inking quill, sipping occasionally at a slowly melting chocolate malt. His concentration was such that he was taken by complete surprise when a package wrapped in plain green paper plopped down on the table. He jumped, gritted his teeth, and narrowed his eyes as Potter, laughing, pulled off that blasted cloak. The boy appeared much more relaxed than he had this morning, he noted. _Better!_

Weasley and Granger stood behind the boy, holding hands. Weasley's other hand was stuck in his pocket, his shoulders in their usual crunch, though he looked nearly as relaxed. Granger's other hand held Weasley's arm, and she leaned into him. _Ah. Well… that made sense. There was bound to be a pairing between two of the three, given what they had lived through together. _He wondered how Potter felt about it.

"Go on – open it!" Potter said, pulling out a chair and gesturing to the other two to join them. Snape raised his eyebrows at the boy's smiling face.

"I thought you were going shopping for a broom?" he said, noting that the boy had no other packages.

Potter waved that away. "Yeah. Hermione's got it."

Snape eyed the girl, who, as far as he could see, was carrying only a small beaded bag. He grunted in surprised comprehension. _Undetectable extension charm, _his mind checked off. He raised an eyebrow at the girl and nodded. She colored and smiled in pleasure, taking a seat next to him, leaving Weasley to take the chair between her and Potter, across from Snape.

Snape pulled the package to him and unwrapped it carefully as Potter grinned across the table at his friends. The wrapping fell open to reveal a red and gold scarf in the softest of cashmere. His fingers stroked the soft wool and his throat seemed suddenly tight.

"We figured you'd need it – for Quidditch, you know?" Potter said, suddenly shy.

Snape cleared his throat. "Thank you… Potter… Miss Granger… Weasley. This… this will come in handy…"

"I thought it should be soft – you know, so it doesn't irritate your…"

It was the first time Potter had referred to Snape's injuries since he had left the infirmary, the scars still red against Snape's pale skin. He nodded. "Thank you." He was spared the necessity of figuring out what to do next by the arrival of the proprietor himself.

"Mr. Potter!" he exclaimed. Circling the table, he rushed over and, in an excess of enthusiasm, planted a kiss on the boy's cheek. Potter unsuccessfully fought to fend him off as Weasley gawked and Granger giggled. Snape shook his head at the group of them, then paid for ice cream – which the proprietor tried to foist on the teens for free. Snape went inside to argue the point, and returned to the table minutes later, having settled the matter to mutual satisfaction.

"So – are you coming home with us, then?" Weasley asked as the friends sipped at malts and shared a banana, pumpkin ice cream and fudge concoction that Snape was sure would be too rich for Potter's stomach.

"Oh – uh…" Potter began.

"_Yes,_" Snape said firmly. The boy looked at him, a protest on his lips. "I promised Molly and Arthur I'd bring you for a visit – at least dinner," Snape said. Potter hesitated, and Snape met his gaze calmly. "It will be all right," he said. The boy nodded and turned back to his friends.

"Yeah – I guess we are," he said, and an anticipatory gleam appeared in his eyes.

"We'll apparate," Snape said. "Need anything else?" he asked, turning to eye each of the three young wizards. They shook their heads in turn. "Let's be off, then, though your mother will not thank me for ruining your appetites," he said to Weasley.

The two boys scoffed at that, and Granger shook her head, laughing. "Boys!" she said.

"Indeed," he agreed. They nodded at the proprietor through the window, clasped hands, and disapparated together to the Burrow.

They appeared just down the lane from the gate to the Weasleys' garden. "Mum is mad to see you, Harry!" Weasley said, pulling Potter after him. "You, too, Professor," he said over his shoulder.

Granger hung back, smiling fondly at the two boys, pacing Snape up the path. She sighed. "He looks good," she said. "I was worried about him when he wouldn't come."

Snape looked at her. "You asked?"

"Yes – loads of times. Twice a week, actually. I thought Ginny could have gotten him to come, but…"

Snape raised an eyebrow in query, and Granger laughed. "Well, he _fancies_ her," she said. "But he wouldn't come… said he wasn't finished…"

Snape watched her warily, wondering. Had the boy told his mates about the Elder Wand? Well,he could hardly fault him for that, after what they had been through together. Granger must have been thinking along the same lines.

"He told you, didn't he? He said something in one of his letters… not clearly, but… I just got the impression… he trusts you," she said softly.

Snape regarded her without a word, and she smiled at him. He found himself curiously affected by that. He nodded, and then they were at the gate.

"_He's here!_" Weasley shouted as they walked through the gate. "Mum! George! Ginny! Harry's here!"

He needn't have shouted the second time. Answering shouts, the clatter of boots on a stairway, and the banging of a door were followed by what seemed to be the entire horde of ginger-haired denizens of the Burrow bursting out into the yard.

Miss Weasley was the first to reach the boy, and she threw herself at him and kissed him full on the lips – which the boy enthusiastically returned after just a moment's hesitation. The rest of the group laughed and tried to pull the boy away from her, unsuccessfully at first. He finally allowed it, looking gobsmacked, and Snape snorted and shook his head. _So that's why Granger and Weasley's hand-holding didn't bother the boy._

Bill Weasley pounded the boy on the back while Molly pulled him into her arms, then held him away from her to examine him head to toe. Fleur kissed him on the cheek. George stood to one side, hands in his pockets, smiling a little sadly, Snape thought. He must have felt Snape's gaze because he looked up and met his eyes. Just for a moment, his eyes gleamed in humor and his mouth twitched in his usual impertinent grin. Snape nodded to him over the heads of the others, and George dropped his head back down, his eyes moist. Snape suddenly realized that their last encounter had resulted in the loss of George's left ear. _If only that was all he'd lost._ His chest hurt and he rubbed it absently.

Bill came up to stand next to Snape, and locked one arm across his shoulders, gripping his hand. "Severus," he said warmly. "Glad to see you up and about. Scared the goblin piss out of us there for a while, didn't he, Georgie?"

"Bill!" Molly exclaimed in laughing exasperation, but she turned to Snape and gave him the same warm hug and the same searching once-over that she had given the boy. He stiffened then patted her on the back awkwardly.

"All right, everyone – let them in, let them in! Come on!" she urged, herding them all into the Burrow's welcoming, slightly quirky kitchen.

Arthur and Percy returned from the Ministry just before dinner, enveloping the boy in warm hugs and clasping Snape's arms. Snape's already-stretched self-control was nearly undone by the warm understanding and clouded grief in Arthur's eyes. "Thank you," the man said into his ear as he clapped one arm around his shoulders in greeting. "Molly and Georgie and I… we appreciated your letter… I never got the chance to thank you for saving George from that Death Eater…"

Snape nodded, the lump in his throat making any other response impossible.

"And thank you for bringing Harry. We were frantic to get him away from there – just to bring him away from the battle, you know, but he kept giving us reasons to put it off. We were considering sending in a task force to extract him if we needed to," Arthur laughed shakily.

Snape nodded, but did not offer any explanation. His eyes were on the boy, surrounded by friends – family, really – laughing, talking, being hugged and patted… which did not look at all bad for him. He sighed. The boy needed this.

He turned to find Arthur regarding him curiously, a half smile on his face. Just then, Molly called them to the table for dinner. Potter waited to see where Snape sat, then planted himself nearby, Miss Weasley and the boy's two friends fighting to sit next to him, and George claiming first rights. George and Granger won the scuffle. The youngest two Weasleys sat across from them, and soon that end of the table filled with primarily teenage babble.

Snape noted Potter's plate was barely filled. _He's filling up on something else tonight,_ he thought, but he speared another slice of Molly's award-worthy meatloaf, reached past Granger to drop it onto the boy's plate, and added garlic mashed potatoes which, to his relief, the boy accepted without argument. He looked up to find Molly's warm eyes on him. She smiled. He blinked, confused, wondering if he had missed something.

Arthur, Molly, Bill and Percy plied him with questions about the school's reconstruction, and responded, sometimes in guarded tones, to his questions about the Ministry. Every so often, he would notice Potter's gaze on them, and he would meet his eye and watch until the boy turned back to his friends.

Charlie was off in the north of the isle, chasing down the dragon the trio had loosed in their escape from Gringotts. Malfoy Manor had finally yielded its secrets, partly because Draco – and then, apparently after much pressure from him, his parents – had decided to cooperate fully with the Ministry's investigation. Draco had been so eager to be helpful that the Ministry had given him both a full pardon "for any and all acts committed under duress during the Second Wizarding War, retroactive to and including any and all acts committed at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" and a citation for "meritorious service". Snape felt immeasurably relieved at that, and commented so to Arthur, who patted him on the arm.

Lucius and Narcissa had not fared so well, despite their reluctant cooperation. While they escaped being sent to Azkaban, they were under house arrest and subject to extremely intrusive monitoring, including monthly interviews under the influence of Veritaserum, to assure their compliance with terms of their sentencing. They would be wandless until such time as the Wizengamot deemed otherwise, if ever, and their personal fortune was halved, the confiscated portion placed in a fund for the families who had lost people in the battle.

All this was appropriate, but the discussion caused Snape's stomach to churn and bile to force its way into his mouth. It was Bill who finally noticed his discomfort, putting a hand on his father's arm to interrupt his latest story. Arthur followed Bill's gaze to Snape's pale face, then apologized.

"It's quite all right," Snape began, but Bill would have none of it, and changed the subject.

"So – how's Harry?" he asked, looking down the table. Snape gave a quick look at the boy, who caught his eye, smiled, and nodded. Snape nodded back, and the boy turned back to his friends.

"He's… he is as well as could be expected, I think… given what he's been through," he said quietly.

Molly nodded, her eyes filled with tears. "Ron and Hermione have told us some of it, what they went through this past year, but we know they are not telling us everything," she confided in a low voice, managing to sound both worried and angry. Arthur put out a hand to comfort her, but she continued. "I think we have a _right_ to know! He's our son!"

It took Snape a moment to realize she had meant Ron, not Potter.

Bill met Snape's eyes as Molly continued. He was more worldly and practical than either of his parents. Charlie probably was too, Snape realized, their professions bringing them into contact with a greater diversity of beast, being and spirit than Molly's wizard-centric life, in particular, had afforded her.

"Mum thinks if she asks the right questions, Ron and Hermione will tell her everything, but…" Bill swirled his glass of milk much as Aberforth had swirled his tumbler of firewhiskey, "I'm of the opinion that there are things we'll never know." He looked toward the trio. "I can't imagine demanding they tell it all… making them live through it again… It's changed them," he noted, both sadly and proudly. "My brothers… they're good folks, you know?" he said, looking up at Snape.

"Bill, you are zo right," Fleur said. "Your brozzers are, how shall I zay? _Vos frères sont incroyablement courageux._"

Percy, sitting across from Charlie, looked down at his plate at that, and Snape thought he saw a tear fall onto his hand, though the young man was quick to wipe it off. Arthur put his arm around Bill's shoulder and reached a hand across to grip Percy's hand. Molly got up from the table, reaching for the hem of her apron, and went to the oven to pull out peach cobbler, sniffling.

Bill kept his eyes on Snape… who eventually found the strength to nod and say shakily, "They are indeed."

"And your Harry," Bill said.

_He's not __my Harry__, _Snape thought, confused, but all he said was, "Indeed," and tried to pretend that had not come out as hoarsely as he thought it had.

After dinner, Potter, the two youngest Weasleys, and Granger went off for a walk, fireflies stirred up from the grass marking their progress. Molly badgered Percy and George into helping her clean up. After hugging Arthur and kissing Molly, Bill and Fleur Apparated back to their flat over Gringotts, where they were staying to be near the family, especially George. Bill gripped Snape's arm in farewell. Arthur and Snape walked out to the garden, leaning on the stone wall, watching the younger four and listening to their murmurs and occasional laughter.

"Ron asked Harry to stay."

Snape held his breath then nodded on an exhale. "It would be good for him. The boy needs his friends – and you and Molly."

"He refused."

Snape said nothing, looking off in the direction the four younger wizards were disappearing around the corner of the house.

"Do you know why?"

He hesitated. "I think so."

"Because if it's Fred…"

Snape sighed. "It might be that, partly," he admitted.

Arthur was quiet for a while.

"God, I miss him," he said finally, and his voice broke.

Snape barely hesitated before he put his arm around the older man, letting him sob out his grief at the loss of his laughing, brilliant, mischievous son. His voice choked as he murmured shakily, his eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall, "I'm sorry, Arthur… I'm so sorry …" His control practically fled when Arthur comforted him in turn, saying, "It's all right… it's all right."

_But of course, it was not all right,_ he knew. _And it would never be all right, because the world was different, infinitely poorer, without Fred Weasley, without Lupin, Tonks and Mad-Eye in it._ His heart nearly burst with the pain of it as he patted Arthur on the back.

The teens coming around from the side of the house were struck silent by the sight of the tall, thin, black-haired professor and the stocky, older, ginger-haired man locked together in their grief.

"Oh, Harry…" Ginny whispered, and the four teens put their arms around each other as they, too, shed renewed tears at the loss.

* * *

_That was Chapter 16 of 30. Carry on._


	18. The Access Spell

**Disclaimer: **Thanks to J.K. Rowling for letting us play in her sandbox. No galleons, sickles or knuts were received from the writing of this. The plot is mine and mine alone. Enter at your own risk.

Feedback, dear readers, is what feeds me.

* * *

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE ACCESS SPELL

"Are you sure?" Snape asked, pulling the boy to the side of the garden.

"Yeah… Profess… I… yeah."

Snape's concern was evident in his voice. "You need your friends, Potter."

The boy swallowed with clear difficulty. "I know, Professor, but…" he trailed off.

Snape nodded. "All right." He reached to close the boy's traveling robe – the night had grown chill.

The boy looked bemused, but stood still.

"Said your goodbyes?"

The boy nodded. It had been hard, Snape could tell. Potter had clung to Ginny for a long time, the two whispering together. The hugs he had exchanged with Ron and Hermione had lasted nearly as long. And he had sat talking with George for nearly a half hour, before they both emerged, red-eyed, from the room George had shared with his twin before they moved to the flat over their shop.

Molly had been nearly frantic at the boy's refusal to stay. Arthur had pulled her into their room to calm down, and they, too, had emerged red-eyed, some minutes later, to the boy's guilty looks and apologies. Molly managed to extract a promise that they would be back on the following Sunday, a promise the boy gave readily enough, partly, Snape was sure, out of guilt. Molly had glared at Snape as if the boy's decision was his fault until Arthur had whispered something to her, at which she nodded, then turned warm, wet eyes on Snape, hugged him, patted his cheek, and whispered, "Take care of our boy, will you?"

Snape had assured her, rather shakily, that he would.

"All right, then," Snape said to the boy, buttoning one last button. He took a lump out from under his arm and folded it around his own neck, its light and dark stripes barely visible in the moonlight. "Hogsmeade, just outside the village, the road up to the castle. Agreed?" The boy grasped his broom and nodded. They walked out past the protective boundary of the Burrow, and in perfect synchrony, pivoted on the spot and disapparated.

They walked up the road to the school in the dark, their path lit by the _Lumos _of their wands. The boy sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Without comment, Snape handed him his pocket square. The boy's "Thanks" was muffled, the sound stuffy. Snape managed not to follow suit, though his throat ached with the effort. As they approached the gate, he took himself sternly in hand. The spells were complicated enough without choking over the tune or the dense, ancient Latin wording.

c

Back at his quarters, he went to undo the ward, but hesitated, not even realizing he had decided something. When Potter went to touch the handle, Snape held him back. "One moment," he said. "Give me your hand."

The boy held his hand out.

"Your wand hand," Snape clarified.

"Oh – yeah."

Snape took the boy's wand hand and placed his over it, his fingers placed carefully between the boy's.

"Step forward a bit," he said. Potter shuffled forward, and Snape took their intertwined hands and placed them against the door, just above chest level. He inhaled, exhaled, and closed his eyes. _Did he mean this?_

"_Manu mea est tuum_."And he did not hesitate…"_Manu tua meum est. Eligere,_" he murmured, and felt the flow of the spell through his hand to the boy's, and from both of them to the door. _It did work, then. And the boy had accepted it. _He allowed himself a small, relieved smile.

He removed his hand from the boy's, then, though Potter kept his hand on the door, his head down, his eyes closed. Snape waited. The boy inhaled and, almost reluctantly, palm, then base of fingers, then fingertips, removed his hand from the door. He turned and looked at Snape, his green eyes glittering deeply.

"What did you do?"

Snape canted his head to one side.

"It's a spell that… allows you into my quarters." He shrugged, though he was not internally as casual as that. "It's stronger than giving you a password. It negates the effect of the ward so you can come and go with no ill effect. It essentially gives you unrestricted access… and allows you to ward the space – from inside and out."

Potter looked at him. Snape watched him. He felt a slight guilty twinge at the suddenly suspicious look on the boy's face.

"And what else?" The boy's voice shook.

Snape went to open the door, but Potter put a hand on his wrist to stop him. Snape held still, and the boy held firm.

"And what else, Professor?"

"It's the start of another, longer, bonding spell," he said after a moment. "Or rather, a series of possible bonding spells… It essentially… it gives you domain over… all my possessions. At this point, it's reversible – by either of us. You can cast it off. I'll show you how. If you do that, you'll need me either to set you a password, which gives you limited access and does not protect against a ward, or to let you in any time you come here."

The boy's face had gone completely still. _Better tell the whole of it…_

"And it… gives you access to anything I seal with my private signature – such as my potion stores. It also makes what we did at Gringotts redundant – for my vault only. Though I would rather you not let the goblins know that."

He smiled slightly, trying to lighten the mood, but Potter's grip on his wrist tightened, making it ache. Snape winced, but Potter did not let up the pressure.

"Don't you think you should have asked me, Professor?"

"I thought you trusted me?" he said mildly.

The boy stared at him coldly.

"I would rather not discuss this standing in the hall, Potter. Let me go. You're hurting me," he added, and Potter looked down and, very deliberately, let go.

Snape turned the door handle, aware of Potter's glare as they entered. He took off his cloak and folded the Gryffindor scarf into an inside pocket. With a flick of his fingers, he lit the fire. He looked up to find Potter's eyes glinting at him coldly, the fire a red reflection on his glasses. He shook his head and gestured toward the chairs. Potter marched to the chair on the right. Sighing, he followed, taking up position across from the boy.

Potter was not quite tall enough, his arms not quite long enough, to keep his elbows on the chair's arms and tent his fingers against his lips, so he settled for tenting them in front of his chest. That effectively prevented Snape from taking up his usual calming pose, and left him the option of crossing his arms defensively across his chest or resting his hands on the arms of the chair, a rather defenseless, vulnerable position he was unused to assuming… except when lying to the Dark Lord.

He rubbed his forehead with the fingers of his left hand, those of his right unconsciously curled in half a nonverbal defensive spell. He made them relax, and finally settled for leaning his elbows on his knees and lacing his hands loosely.

"Ask," he said.

"First tell me how to undo the spell."

Snape nodded. "I would have anyway."

"A little late to claim that, don't you think?" Potter challenged him in a grating voice.

Snape cocked his head at the boy. "I thought you trusted me," he said again. The boy did not respond to that. He sighed carefully and shook his head. _Well… that was inevitable. _"You're _not bound_, Potter. We didn't take the spell further. This is an access spell only."

"Don't make choices for me," the boy said tightly. "Don't _do_ things to me."

_What was eating at the boy? _Snape sighed inwardly. _Would nothing ever be easy with him? _However, he said nothing to defend himself.

"To repudiate the spell – on your own, mind, you don't need me..." Potter nodded, but not in a way that reassured Snape. "… lay your hand against the door, and say _Manus mea meum est. Manu tua tuum est. Sic eligere._" Snape kept tight rein on his voice and emotions.

"Say it again," Potter demanded.

Snape repeated it until the boy could say it perfectly, his approach eventually calming him as the familiarity of the teacher-student relationship corrected the momentary imbalance between them. When the boy could repeat the phrases perfectly three times without prompting, he nodded in approval.

"Then what?" The hard tone in the boy's voice unsettled him again.

"This will work better if I demonstrate."

Potter nodded – _permission. _Snape was irritated… or maybe… concerned. However, he swallowed that, too, and fetched the small wooden box of floo powder to him with an unspoken _Accio_ and moved to sit on the sofa adjunct to the boy's chair. The boy narrowed his eyes. Snape sighed.

"This is an unwarded, unlocked box," he said. "First I'll lock it…"

"No," the boy said. "Ward it. Make it the killing ward." Snape's spine was uncomfortable with that, and with the boy's tone, but he did as the boy demanded. _Figure it out, Potter._

Then, "Now show me how to do the warding."

Snape unwarded the box. He walked Potter through warding and unwarding it, then insisted the boy learn the other two less lethal levels of warding. Finally, he allowed the boy to ward the box with the killing spell on it.

"Show me the bonding spell."

"We did not do a complete bonding spell – only the first step," he reminded the boy.

"I want to know the whole thing," the boy demanded.

Snape placed the box on the sofa next to him, turned to look at the boy, and laced his fingers together between his knees.

"No," he said softly.

The boy stared at him challengingly, almost threateningly, and the fact that the Elder Wand lay locked in the boy's trunk only feet away from them did not escape Snape's mind. He saw the boy's awareness of it. But he held firm, sitting calmly, the "No" between them.

_We can't go forward like this, Potter,_ he thought. _Work it out – now._

"I want to know the whole spell."

"First of all, it's more complicated than that. The spell bifurcates to at least three potential spells that I know of. Secondly, I will be happy to teach you _whatever _you wish to know, Potter," Snape said calmly, quietly. "But at the appropriate time. You do not need the whole of it to do or undo what we have done here – or what I did at the door. This lesson is limited to the undoing of that step. That is all we will cover tonight. If that is agreeable, we will proceed. If it is not, this lesson is over." He said that last clearly, enunciating each word slowly, but without heat or threat.

_Figure it out, Potter._

Potter's eyes glittered, and he stared at Snape for a full minute. Snape refused to fall into those eyes, into Legilimency, but he opened his mind so that _Potter_ could, dropping all shields, refusing to slam them up through Occlumency despite the boy's hostile demeanor. But neither he nor the boy breached the other's mind.

Potter blinked first. _Thank Merlin!_

"Fine," he said. "Just this part. For now."

"For now," Snape agreed, nodding, his black eyes never leaving the boy's face.

"First the words. The incantation is _'Manu mea est tuum. Manu tua meum est. Eligere.' _Here is the first part again… Repeat it." He had the boy repeat each part then combine them until he could do so perfectly without prompting.

"Now match the physical motion to the incantation. My hand under yours this time. No – start at the thumb, yours outside mine. Yes. That's it." He made the boy repeat it.

"The last step is to gather your intent_._ This spell works only if you mean it wholeheartedly. If there is any reservation – any at all – it will not work. What keeps it from being an unforgiveable spell," he said, his own eyes glittering blackly now, "is that both partiesmust be amenable. If either party resists or hesitates, the spell will not take. Bothmust be willing_._"

"But –" the boy protested.

Snape just looked at him. The boy shook his head in denial.

_Figure it out, Potter._

"There's no point, then, is there?" the boy said, his eyes filled with angry tears. "You'll _never_ let me do this… but _you_ could do it to _me_ because… because…" He choked on a sob. Snape had to practically Petrify himself to keep from reaching out to the boy, but he forced himself to sit still.

"Try it," he said quietly.

"Why?"

"Try it. You'll never know until you try, Potter." _You'll never know._

The boy shook his head, but allowed Snape to guide his hand once more over his.

_Here is the motion._

_Here is the incantation._

_Gather your intent._

_Manu mea est tuum. Manu tua meum est. Eligere._

And Snape placed his palm, the boy's fingers interlaced with his, on the warded box, felt the warmth of the boy's magic flow through their intertwined hands, and willed the box to open.

c

"Now let's undo it. This is how…"

_Here is the gesture…_

_Here are the words…_

_Gather your intent…_

_Manus mea meum est. Manu tua tuum est. Sic eligere._

He felt the magic leach back from the bond, leaving his fingers cold and his heart empty.

Potter sat looking at the box. After a few moments, he put it down on the hearth, stood, and without a single word, went to his room. Snape heard him inhale, place his hand on the doorknob, and open the door. The access spell they had undone was only Potter's, not his. The boy could still come and go through the wards – unless he undid the spell.

He heard a murmur from the other side of the door. Sighing, he flicked his fingers, undoing the ward.

He sat and stared into the fire for a long time, not even conscious of what was going through his mind. After a while, he stood, placed the box of floo powder on the mantle, gathered his cloak, and went to his room, casting a Muffliato at his door.

c

He was jerked awake by the sound of a scream. For a moment, he could not tell if it had been his own scream that woke him, or someone else's. The scream echoed again, ending in a terrified sob. He tore off his covers and ran from his room to the boy's. When he reached for the doorknob, his fingers met a shield that repelled his touch.

_What the…?_

He tried again. _Damn it! _ The boy had warded his room from the inside – he couldn't get to him. The boy screamed again. He tried again to break through, knowing it futile.

"Potter!" he shouted, pounding his fist uselessly against the ward. "Damn it, Potter, let me in!" But the boy must have been trapped too deeply in his nightmare. Snape sagged against the shield in frustration, anger, and fear as he listened to the boy's anguished wail go on and on… "Potter…" He leaned his head against the boy's door, his stomach roiling, his blood chilled by the boy's screams, until he sank down on the floor and sat with his knees drawn up, his head in his hands, shivering, listening as the boy sobbed and called out.

How long he sat there, how long Potter's nightmare went on, he did not know. At some point, both he and the boy must have fallen asleep again, because he woke up, cold and sore, sitting on the bitter, unforgiving flagstone. He listened, wondering what had woken him. Hearing nothing, he got stiffly to his feet, relit the fire in his study, and returned to his room, where he took a hot bath, and crawled back into his bed, still wet, too tired to even dry himself off with a spell.

The sound of movement in the next room woke him. He ached all over, his movements stiff as he dressed. His wounds were bothering him. He couldn't remember if they had been hurting lately. He performed a quick pain-banishing spell, knowing he would pay for that later, tamed the mess of hair that had dried mashed into his head as he slept, and went out to his study.

The boy's door was closed, and he could still hear movement. He sighed and went to the table, laying out two place settings. He wasn't even sure the boy would eat – at least, not with him. "Breakfast," he murmured, and was rewarded with the tantalizing odors of steak and eggs, muffins, and blessedly hot Earl Grey tea. The boy's door opened and he stepped out, stopping when he saw Snape at the table.

Snape shook his head slightly. He gestured to the table, but said nothing, merely dishing his own plate, busying himself with his tea. The boy walked to the table, stood for a moment by the chair he typically used, then pulled it out and sat down.

"Good morning," Snape said.

The boy said nothing. After a minute, he dished himself eggs and steak. Eventually, he even ate some of it. Snape ate his usual spare meal quickly and silently, giving the boy room and time to figure out what he wanted.

After he finished, he sat with his tea and once again watched the boy. Potter simply… came to a halt, not even moving let alone eating. Snape sighed.

"What are your plans today?"

"I don't see that that is any of your concern, Professor," the boy said tonelessly.

"No. You are quite right." Snape sighed. "It is none of my concern. You are an adult, here by your own choice…"

The boy twitched at that.

"… and you may, of course, do as you wish within the bounds of common courtesy and school rules."

"You're a fine one to talk of common courtesy," the boy snapped as if he could not help himself, because then he clamped his lips shut.

"I suppose you are right," Snape admitted, "however, we had that discussion last night and I am not sure what the point is of having it again… at this time." He spoke with rather more heat than he had intended, which is to say barely any, but not none. He sighed again.

"My own plans for the day are to check on Trelawney, Filch, Firenze and the house elves this morning. I intend to begin to set up my lab. I may go back to Hogsmeade for lunch. In the afternoon, I intend to brew some potions for the coming year…" He interrupted himself a moment when Potter twitched a shoulder.

"I tell you, Potter, because if you have undone the access spell, or intend to do so, you will need me to let you back into our space if you intend to come back here."

Potter looked up at that, but just stared at Snape blankly.

"If, on the other hand, you intend to take up quarters in Hogsmeade or return to the Burrow, I would appreciate knowing, so that I need not worry what has become of you." He held up a hand as the boy opened his mouth to speak. "It is a _common courtesy _for house mates to let each other know their daily schedules, Potter. That is all I am doing. You may come and go as you wish. You are welcome to join me in any or all of my pursuits, or may follow your own pursuits as you wish."

The boy did not even nod. After a few moments of motionless silence, he got up, fetched a jacket from his room, and left.

Snape sat staring at nothing, immobile, until it occurred to him that between staring at nothing and shaking his head, he was developing some rather unproductive habits. He just didn't know what else to do. So – he got up and did as he told the boy he was going to do.

c

Checking on the remaining summer residents of the castle was a rather more challenging experience than he had anticipated. In light of his plans, he took a top-down approach, and first sought out Trelawney in the North Tower. There was a notable absence of the odor of cooking sherry in her quarters, replaced with the surprising, pleasant scent of sage. Her divination classroom was light and airy, the tall, thin windows uncovered and thrown wide. He found the seer in the middle of beating dust out of floor pillows.

"Cleansing them of negative vibrations," she explained, and began what would no doubt have been a lengthy explanation of the process of purification needed to prepare for the following term, had he not interrupted with a query about the stacks of tarot card decks on a bookshelf, looking to divert her. She wandered over to them and randomly picked up a deck halfway down its depth.

"Hmm…" she said absently, "a dark haired boy, lost, confused…" He shook his head in irritation. She picked up another and looked confused herself.

_Of course, when did she __not__ look confused?_

"A dark haired man, lost." She shrugged one shawled shoulder, and turned around. "Oh – Severus! Did you need anything?"

"No thank you, Sybill. I'll be on my way, then. Have a pleasant day."

She nodded. Just as he reached the door, she said, "Don't worry, Severus. What was lost will be found."

Pondering the peculiarities that were Sybill Trelawney, he left via the ladder and headed to the kitchen. On his way, he ran across Sir Nicholas, who greeted him cheerfully and offered to accompany him. Nick chatted amiably about the various ghosts and their summer activities, and left him at the staircase that led both to the Hufflepuff common room and the kitchens.

He entered and was nearly immediately greeted by several elves, who enquired eagerly about whether Master Snape required any tea or perhaps a mid-morning snack. He declined, but requested that someone assist him with his packages later in the morning. "Master Snape has only to call," said an elderly elf he was fairly sure was female, "… and Elspeth will be there."

_Ah. Female then._

"Thank you. I shall."

The elf patted his knee – _Dratted elves! _– and enquired again whether he wouldn't like some tea and scones. "Master Snape is too thin. Master Snape does not keep down his meals. And nor does Master Harry."

"What? What do you mean?" he demanded. "How do you…"

"Kreacher says. Kreacher watches," Elspeth began, but she was hushed by several other elves.

"Elspeth! Look at me! What do you mean Master Harry does not keep his food down?" Elspeth looked at him stricken, and made to dash herself against the table. Well acquainted with house elves' tendencies to punish themselves for every perceived infraction, he grabbed her by the back of her Hogwarts-crested towel.

"Elspeth, I forbid you to punish yourself," he ordered sharply. He inhaled. "In fact, I forbid any of the House Elves to punish themselves without the Headmistress' consent or direct order, is that clear?" he said, looking around at the larger group that had gathered.

"Yes, Master Snape. Thank you, Master Snape. Certainly, Master Snape" the elves said, though he had the clear impression that they were only humoring him, to judge by the looks they exchanged.

"Where is Kreacher, anyway?"

"Kreacher is at Grimmauld Place," another elf spoke up.

"Please have him find me when he returns."

"Yes, Master Snape, though he will probably not be back today."

Snape nodded, thanked them and left.

Shaking his head and already planning an anti-nausea potion to slip into the boy's breakfast drink, he went in search of Filch. Judging by the clanging, either he was busy polishing armor or Peeves was up to no good. It was a bit of both, he discovered. Argus was indeed occupied with cleaning armor in the hallway on the fourth floor, Mrs. Norris weaving in and out between his ankles. And Peeves was just as busy lofting dust balls at the cat and at armor Filch had just cleaned and oiled. When Snape entered the hall, Peeves held a finger to his lips, lofted a particularly large dust ball at Filch's head, and sped out of his reach, cackling, when the man turned to swipe his rag at him. Snape stifled a laugh at the dust balls dangling from the man's hair. Apparently this had been going on for some time. Surprisingly, Filch did not take the opportunity to complain, only reporting that the seventh through fifth floors were clean, and he hoped they stayed that way. Snape snorted and shook his head, and Filch made a noise of rueful agreement.

He was on his way out of the castle to visit Firenze when a movement caught his attention. He squinted against the glare of the sun through thin, high clouds, and looked upward. It was – could only have been – Potter, on his broom obviously, though he could barely make out the speck that was the boy at this distance, hanging nearly motionless above the still-devastated Quidditch pitch. He watched for a moment, but the boy hung still. _What was he doing up there? _he wondered. _Thinking…_ That was clear. Just thinking.

Not wanting to call attention to himself or intrude on the boy's solitude, he turned and went back inside. He'd catch Firenze on his way to or from Hogsmeade.

c

Thus, by mid-morning, he was unpacking his things from their trips to Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. In one box was clothing – a mixture of things he and Potter had ordered. He placed the boy's on a chair he waved over to set by the door to the boy's room, and put his own away. The wardrobe still looked empty, but that did not bother him.

More important by far were his books and potion supplies. He found himself surprisingly fine with the loss of his old notes and texts, anticipating the challenge of recreating those and looking at his knowledge with fresh eyes. Even _Standard Book of Potions, Year One _seemed filled with more potential, lacking his cramped notes in the margins. Unexpectedly content, he set about arranging his laboratory and library – if a mere twenty three volumes could be called a library. No matter. He'd fill the shelves soon enough.

Each time he unpacked ingredients related to the Draught of Dreamless Sleep, he noted their eventual placement on the shelves along one wall or in the apothecary drawers lining the other with a label, but left them to one side on the large worktable.

After a good two and a half hours, his lab at least unpacked, if not fully arranged to his liking, he banished boxes and packing material, and stretched his arms, back and neck. His back twinged and his right hand spasmed slightly as he stretched. He'd have to do some exercises and use a poultice, or he'd rue it later.

He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. _Not a bad morning's work._ Spotting the ingredients for Draught of Dreamless Sleep, he decided to make things _perfectly_ clear. He went to his study, found the book the boy had nearly doused with ink, and left it open on the worktable, pulling the ingredients to sit above it, a weighted marker holding down the relevant page.

Then, heeding his growling stomach, he headed out the door to Hogsmeade. As Potter had taken to warding his room, and had apparently undone the access spell Snape had performed so disastrously last evening, he left his study unwarded, in case the boy returned. Potter was no longer hanging above the Quidditch pitch, and he wondered where the boy had gone off to.

c

Snape lunched at Rosmerta's, hesitant, for no reason he was willing to admit to himself, to face Aberforth. Though the town as a whole was relatively empty, Rosmerta's was busy enough that it took him a moment or two to find a spot to sit, off near a corner, where he could read and write as he ate. As he wended his way between tables, conversation in the crowded room dropped off. It picked up again once he sat. Rosmerta herself waited on him.

"Severus!" she greeted him warmly. "How good to see you up and about! Why on earth are you not on holiday?"

"The school…" he shrugged.

"Of course!" She smiled and patted his shoulder.

He shook his head, bewildered. _Why__ are people always __patting__ me? _He ordered his meal and opened his book, quill poised to annotate.

Two hours and several light libations later, the urgent pleas of his bladder finally broke his concentration. He used the men's room and went to pay for his lunch. Rosmerta laughingly waved away his money. "So many people offered to pay for your lunch, Severus, that had I accepted, you'd be eating here free through start of term!"

Snape turned to survey the much less crowded dining room. A wizard and witch across the room raised their glasses to him. He frowned. He didn't recognize them.

"Rosmerta, I can hardly…"

"Now, there, Severus… Don't you worry. If they hadn't treated you to lunch, I would have! Next one's on me," she said, and turned back to her customers.

Looking back at the couple, Snape nodded cautiously, if somewhat suspiciously, then gathered his book and quill and headed back to the school.

Not seeing Firenze at the edge of the Forest or around Hagrid's, he headed back to his quarters, his mind on his reading. The boy's clothes were gone from the chair by his room. For some reason, that made him feel better, though he had not been aware of feeling _bad. _He listened at the boy's door, but heard no movement. That meant little, as the boy could easily have used a Muffliato charm if he was inside. His lab appeared undisturbed at first glance, but then he realized the book was lying aslant versus aligned with the edge of the work surface. Further investigation revealed that the ingredient containers were short nearly the exact amount needed to brew a competent, small dose, and that an appropriately sized crystal vial was missing. He nodded to himself. He would have preferred to approve the potion before the boy used it, but the indications were that the boy had at least approached the task correctly. He let it go.

It occurred to him, however, that Potter would have made merely enough for a dose or three of the elixir. As the infirmary's store had been depleted – at least partly by him – he decided to make a small cauldronful. He might as well make economic use of the time and effort and make enough for his use and Potter's, as well as replenishing Poppy's supply.

An hour and a half later, having accomplished this, he took one vial to his room, left another on the work table for Potter, and sent the largest container to the infirmary with a house elf he'd called to him in the lab. He wondered if the boy had dosed himself to make up for lost sleep, since he still heard nothing from the boy's room.

Returning to his study, he found a package on the table. He looked around. Still no Potter that he could see… had he wandered from his room without Snape noticing, and received an owl? He shook his head. _I'm getting sloppy._

_In any case… _He thought about his unpacking from before. He could not think of anything they had ordered that had not been delivered. Perhaps it was the boy's? But no – it was addressed to him.

The package was small, little over twelve inches in length and perhaps four inches square on end. It was heavier than it looked. He opened it curiously, and drew out something wrapped in blue tissue. The wrapping fell off as soon as he set it on the table, and he stared at what it revealed.

"What the bloody…?"

It was a wand, in crystal. Or more accurately, _his _wand rendered in crystal, atop a brilliant white quartz stand with a plaque attached. The inscription read

Order of Merlin, First Class  
Awarded this 19 July 1998  
to  
Severus A. Snape  
For Exemplary Services to the Wizarding World  
As a Member of the Order of the Phoenix  
1981 - 1998

An enclosed paper verified the award and went on to explicate the actual listing, which was several paragraphs long. It named the people who had nominated him for the award – Minerva, Kingsley and Arthur Weasley – and those who had voted in affirmation – the Wizengamot in its entirety.

Somewhere along the way, he had fallen into a chair at the table. Now he sat, jaw still dropped, reading the letter for the third time. When he was done, he shook his head.

_What in the name of Merlin's left testicle…?_

_Bloody hell…_

_Idiots!_

The only thing that kept him from crumpling the papers, cracking the wand into pieces, and Banishing them both into oblivion were the signatures at the bottom of the page, which included Arthur, Minerva and Kingsley.

_What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with this? _he asked himself. Finally, rising, he went to his lab and thrust the award into the back of the lowest shelf at the bottom right, behind a large container of herbivore. But the paper he placed carefully in a file in a drawer of his desk.

c

When there was still no sign of Potter an hour past dusk, Snape concluded he was either sleeping in town, gone back to the Burrow, or asleep in his room. He wished he knew which, but as the boy was obviously still angry – he twitched a guilty shoulder at that – he could not really expect the courtesy. He might have done much the same, had the same been done to him without his knowledge and consent. _He would have, _he admitted_._

He sat at the table after his solitary meal, scratching out lesson plans, his copy of _Magical Draughts and Potions _beginning to bear his signature annotations in its margins. His right hand was sore and twitching, and he needed to stop frequently to rest it. He'd stopped once already to bathe and slip on socks, pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, though the room was beginning to chill. It was probably time for him to stop for the night, before his handwriting became totally illegible.

The knock at the door sealed it, and he cast down his quill, stretching out against the twinges in his back, and rose to answer the knock, wondering who it was, mentally tallying only Firenze, Trelawney and Filch in the castle, any of whom would be unlikely visitors.

It was Potter. Snape looked at the boy in surprise. "Potter… what are you doing here?" he asked. The boy looked taken aback, but he said nothing, just stood there uncertainly. Snape recovered first and stood aside. "Come in. I thought you'd gone to the Burrow – or Hogsmeade."

Potter flicked his eyes to Snape's face. They were rimmed in red. He moved perhaps half-way between the table and the door to his room and hesitated.

Snape hesitated himself, his hand still on the doorknob, then said, "Some tea before bed?" watching as the boy made up his mind. Finally, the boy nodded. Snape exhaled and shut the door. Potter turned around and walked to the table. He looked exhausted, so apparently he had not slept this afternoon.

Rather than calling to the kitchens at this time of night, Snape went to his lab and fetched a small cauldron with an indent in its lip for pouring. He filled it with water and hung it on a hook embedded in the stone of the hearth. Every so often, his eyes flicked to the boy, who was staring at the wall across from where he sat. He swung the cauldron over the fire, and fetched two large mugs, some tea leaves, honey, milk and spoons. He hesitated, then set them on a table near the fireplace.

"Let's sit here. It'll be more comfortable. It's getting chilly."

The boy, who had not once looked up, simply rose and walked to the sofa, where he sat looking at his hands. He was so listless that Snape worried he was ill. _What in Merlin's name is the problem?_

The water came to a boil, helped along by the quick warming spell Snape flicked at it, though he was not in a rush, wanting to give the boy time to settle. Whatever was going on, at least he was sitting here. _That was progress – wasn't it?_ He poured water through strainers of tea leaves, let them steep, added milk and honey, and placed one mug on the table at the boy's elbow.

He debated sitting next to the boy, but settled on the nearest chair. "Drink it while it's hot," he said, following his own advice. The boy overcame his inertia enough to do so. The tea seemed to loosen him a bit.

"What does it mean?" the boy finally asked.

"What does what mean?" Snape asked, though he thought he knew.

"The spell."

"I told you…"

But Potter shook his head. "No – you told me what it _does_, but not what it _means_. Some of it… but there's more to it, too, isn't there?"

Snape took another sip of his tea, giving himself time to consider how to respond. He held the warm mug against his hands, which ached from his writing, the unpacking, the potion-making and the chill of the evening.

_This is where we are now. Start from this moment. Start from here. _He remembered to breathe.

"_Manu mea est tuum. Manu tua meum est. Eligere_," he intoned.

The boy nodded and looked at him. "What does it mean?"

For some reason, Snape's eyes burned. _I must be tired._

"It's an ancient Mithraic ritual… Mithraic rituals have to do with vows or bonds, a unity… sealed with the joining of hands. They're theoretical, mostly… not used much in modern times. Not used at all, in fact, as far as I know. I didn't actually know if it would work until we… until I…"

He looked down at his tea, then back up at Potter. The boy was sitting with his hands clenched around his mug, hunched over it, looking miserable. Snape wished he could put it right. He sighed.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked you first." He kept his eyes on the boy's. When the boy said nothing, he continued.

"This ritual translates to _My hand is yours… your hand is mine… Choose_." He took it apart. "_Manu mea est tuum. _My hand is yours. It's… an offering… a giving, first. It means all that I have is yours. I hold my possessions with an open hand in your presence, in our relationship." His wand hand opened in unconscious enactment. "The first wizard, the one invoking the bond, makes him or herself vulnerable. It is beyond a courtesy, it is a statement of trust. It's the first wizard's statement of willingness," he said, feeling some part of him confirm the words even though he was not actively invoking them. He shook his head at himself.

"_Manu tua meum est._ Your hand is mine. It's an invitation. It means that I give you domain over all that I have, tangible and intangible. Your hand commands as if it is mine… up to and including…" He hesitated, not out of any hesitation in meaning it, but out of a desire not to burden the boy. Truth won out. "… my wand."

_Figure it out, Potter._

"_Eligere_ _– _Choose," he said quietly, and exhaled a deep sigh. "It means I offer this – all that I am and all that I have, and I give you dominion over all of that, but you can choose – to accept or reject, to be responsive to and responsible for that… to accept the gift and the invitation. It's not… intellectual agreement. There is that, of course, but this is… about the heart. Will you accept my trust? Will you be trustworthy in return, to the best of your ability? Do you accept what I have to give?" He shrugged a bit uncomfortably. "Only your heart knows the truth. The spell works only if both agree… both hearts."

He was surprised to find his hands trembling at that and his heart beating more rapidly than usual. He shook his head at himself again. _Calm yourself!_

He watched the boy, but Potter said nothing, only sat hunched over his tea. He went on.

"The 'more' – the _immediate_ 'more' would be a response from the second wizard: _Sic eligere, _which means 'I so choose.' Without that, the access spell is reversible, even though it might have worked, might be acceptable emotionally. Without the second person's _conscious_ consent, _conscious_ choosing, it is not binding. With it, the second wizard or witch accepts the gift, accepts the responsibility, accepts the bonded relationship."

He hesitated. "It's slightly more complicated than that, but that is a fair explanation."

He cocked his head at the boy. He remembered to breathe. "The three bifurcations I am aware of lead from there to the declaration of an heir, a marriage bonding, or an adoption bonding. Those each require much more by way of explanation, but are well beyond the spell I invoked at the door. If you want to know about those, I will be happy to discuss them with you."

The boy put down his tea and clenched his hands between his knees, looking anywhere but at Snape. After several minutes of silence, he stood, excused himself in a murmur and went to his room.

Exhausted for some reason, Snape did not even bother to clean up the mugs. Either the house elves would take care of it during the night, or he would take care of it in the morning. He left his books and notes on the table as well, unaccountably depressed. Chilled and tired, he took himself to bed.

His own thrashing woke him at one point, but his Muffliato protected the boy from hearing him. He got up and padded to the bathroom, where he sicked up the tea and the remains of his supper, shaking as he leaned against the basin.

The boy's cries woke him later, and he again went to the boy's door, placing his hand against it, feeling the ward, and sinking to the flagstones to sit, shivering, until the boy's terrified screams quieted. Then he took himself back to bed, his ears alert to any sound, his body aching and sore, his eyes and his stomach burning. Hours later, perhaps, he finally fell asleep.

* * *

GAH... Poor Severus! *hugs Severus forever and never lets go.* Ok. That was Chapter 17. ONward.


	19. Custodi Bene

**Disclaimer:** Jo Rowling's universe, characters, setting, etc. The Latinate and High Latin spells are my own, as is the plot. _Custodi Bene_. Guard it well.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_CUSTODI BENE_

The next morning, Potter stayed in bed later than usual. Snape was not surprised. The boy had had nightmares two nights running. He hoped the boy was at least getting some sleep in the early morning hours. He was not much better himself. Despite a lengthy hot bath, his muscles protested every move as he dressed. His ankles ached, his neck was stiff, and his wand wrist was tender and a bit inflamed. He felt like he was coming down with some blasted Muggle 'flu. Groaning slightly, he threw a wool sweater over his shirt, wedged his feet into the lamb's wool slippers Potter had conjured for him in the infirmary, and went to hang his head over the table, too ill to even order breakfast from the kitchen. The thought of food made him queasy.

He was still sitting there an hour later when the door to Potter's room opened. The boy halted when he saw him. Snape did not have the energy even to raise his head.

"Professor?"

Snape groaned softly in reply.

"Are you okay, Professor?"

He groaned again. His head felt like it was going to burst, and he was chilled despite the sweater.

The boy walked over and stood by him uncertainly. He could see the boy's feet to his left if he cracked his eyes – but why on earth would he want to do that? He wanted to let his head slide down to the table, but some innate sense of dignity kept it upright.

A hand touched his forehead. It was cool. That felt good, but also made him shiver. He groaned.

"Professor… you're warm… Should I… should I…?"

"'m fine, Potter. I just need… rest."

Silence – _thank Merlin_.

"Professor? I think you should go back to bed."

That sounded blissful… but he was uncertain just exactly where his bed was, at the moment, and he seemed to have misplaced his head. Or something. He really couldn't think… didn't want to.

"Come on, Professor…"

How he got to bed, he didn't know. One minute he was at the table, the next he knew coherently, he was in his bed, buried under blissfully warm blankets, a fire in the fireplace, and a cup of steaming tea on his nightstand next to a purple vial of… something. A worried-looking Potter was looking down at him.

"What time is it?"

The boy looked guilty.

"What's the matter?"

"Uh… nothing. It's… it's around seven, Professor," the boy said in a thoughtfully quiet voice.

_Seven. That didn't make sense… hadn't he been up at seven?_

His thoughts must have flitted across his face because the boy said, "It's seven at night, Professor. You've been sleeping all day."

He groaned, but not from soreness… just for having wasted an entire day.

"Are you all right, Professor? Should I get Professor Trelawney or Firenze?"

He groaned again in negation. "No! I'm fine," he ground out. Though he was not fine enough to decide to get out of bed, he realized. He struggled to a sitting position, grateful when the boy did not aid him.

"You should drink the tea, Professor," the boy said, reaching for the cup and handing it to him.

"What's in it?" he croaked, though his nose twitched at familiar scents and his mind started automatically cataloging ingredients. He seemed to be thinking again.

"Elderberry… and eucalyptus… and willow bark," the boy said.

_Likely to be effective_, Snape conceded. He inhaled. Even the scent helped calm his stomach and ease his head.

"And what else?"

"Just some tea… Darjeeling. I thought about putting it in wine, but you don't have any, and I thought the elderberry… it might clash unless it was elderberry wine… and anyway, I thought it might sour your stomach," Potter said somewhat uncertainly.

Snape inhaled again and felt his head clear a bit. "And…?"

"And… honey."

"No milk?"

"No – I thought the eucalyptus… it's an oil, so I thought…"

He nodded. "You were correct."

The boy gulped, looking relieved.

Snape sipped and could not hold back a small moan of relief. The tea was blessedly warm and soothed the back of his throat, which seemed to be on fire, though he only now realized it. He took another sip and felt the warm brew relaxing his shoulders and warming his chest. The muscles in his back started to loosen as he continued drinking. The boy watched, still concerned but more relaxed.

"Where did you find the instructions?" he asked curiously. He could not recall which book this brew was listed in.

"Ah..." The boy looked uncomfortable and scratched his ear. _This should be interesting._ Snape waited, sipping at the tea again_._

"I… I looked up 'fever' in the index in the back of _1,000 Magical Herbs_," he said. "There were loads of herbs listed for fever, but… I _know_ elderberry and eucalyptus… and for willow bark, it said it was good for fevers and flu, so I thought it might help…" He trailed off as Snape eyed him over the rim of the cup he held to his nose, still inhaling the heavenly scent.

He nodded. The boy had thought this through quite well, and the fact that he had done so well without specific instructions…

"How much of each?" he asked, curious whether the boy had thought that far.

The boy scratched at his scar.

"Is that hurting you?"

"What? Oh – no. Habit," the boy said, dropping his hand.

Snape nodded, relieved. "So – how much?"

Potter replied in a rush, obviously nervous, as if he had memorized the recipe – which he might have, in his anxiety, Snape realized.

"One teaspoon crushed elderberry flower – I thought the taste might be good, and it's supposed to be good for the stomach, and also reduce a fever. And I thought if you slept a bit, it might give you time to get better… but not too much, because I didn't want to knock you out or… and I remembered a potion from fifth year that used about that much and you had Neville take it and he just… he just relaxed, so I thought that would be the right amount."

Snape nodded approval.

The boy drew a breath and went on. "And the eucalyptus, it smelled strong and it's an oil… I thought too much could upset your intestines, so… so I just used two drops. That smelled right to me."

Snape's eyebrows twitched in appreciation of that. "And the willow bark?"

"Well, I don't remember using willow before, but it's kind of gritty… the book said one teaspoon in tea, but that it might cause cramps, so I just used a little – maybe a quarter teaspoon… I let it all steep for ten minutes, and then I strained it… and… and… and there it is," he said, gesturing at the mug.

"How much willow – a quarter teaspoon, a little more, or a little less? How much more or less?" Snape grilled him.

"Ah…"

Snape nodded. "Best to be precise, Potter, if you're going to be making your own potions… And the honey?"

"Taste," the boy said promptly. "Elderberries aren't sweet, so you need the honey to bring out the taste. Plus your wrist looked swollen, so I thought another anti-inflammatory…"

"Elderberry and willow also have anti-inflammatory properties, but the honey was a good addition, even with that. Elderberries are slightly tart, and the honey counteracts that."

He saw Potter log that into some part of his brain, and he nodded, recognizing the look on the boy's face.

"Now – why don't you write that down, so you don't forget?"

"Huh?"

"Never lose a bit of data, Potter. If you're going to experiment…"

The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Snape raised a hand and shook his head. "If you're going to experiment," he said, "you _must _keep records. Precision, observation and objectivity will keep you from costly mistakes. Potion making is a science first, Potter, an art second… though you've done well on both counts with this brew. It's delicious and… it's working. Thank you…"

He sighed and leaned back against his pillows, relaxing, and closed his eyes, catching a glimpse of the boy's face, a curious blend of surprise, relief and satisfaction, as he did so.

He woke the next morning feeling much better but extremely hungry, to judge by the hollow in his middle and the growl coming from it. _Breakfast before bathing, then_, he decided.

Potter was already at the table, his head bent over a book, two vials in front of him. Snape recognized Dreamless Sleep Draught – one his own vial, one the boy's. The boy looked up as he came out of his room.

"How are you feeling, Professor?" he asked, eyeing Snape appraisingly.

"Much better. Thank you," Snape said, running his hand through his hair and taking up Potter's usual chair, as the boy was sitting in his – perfectly positioned to watch Snape's door, he realized, and stifled a snort. The boy was really thinking much more strategically than he had given him credit for… though a year on the run had probably honed his self-preservation instincts to a fine edge. He felt his usual twinge of mixed sympathy and remorse at that.

The boy put aside his book, marking his spot. "Breakfast," he murmured, and Snape allowed his lips to twitch at the boy's assumption of control of the situation, acting the caretaker. He let him, though he really was feeling much better this morning.

"What are you reading?" he asked as the boy filled his plate for him.

"I was checking my potion. I think I did something wrong."

_Really? That was interesting. _"Why?" Snape asked, eyeing the two vials.

"Because mine is lighter than yours… and… yours works better," the boy admitted with a rueful shrug.

Snape picked up the two vials and held them to the light coming through the window. His was clearly identifiable as the darker of the two, but that was to be expected. He uncorked one, then the other, and sniffed. No difference that nose could detect. He would have tasted a drop on his finger, but he had no wish to induce drowsiness – or poison himself, if the boy had erred significantly. He had no idea why, if the boy had followed instructions, his would have worked better than the boy's brew, especially in light of the boy's currently guarded attitude toward him.

"Did you figure it out?"

"No," Potter said, clearly frustrated. "I think I followed the instructions right, but…" He looked up at Snape suspiciously. "Did you put something else in yours?"

But he answered his own question. "But you didn't though. I used your book… and you always make notes if you change things, so… you didn't change anything, did you?"

Snape nodded approval. "Good observation. Yes – I keep track if I alter something. It's the only way to replicate the effect. _Science _first. So no – I did not add anything beyond what was in the book."

Potter nodded. "So why…?"

"I don't know," Snape said, considering the question seriously. "At least – I know why it's darker, but I don't know why my brew would work more effectively than your own… Replication."

"What?"

"Replication. We need to replicate what we both do, observe our steps to see if they differ, and test the result. That's how to identify any difference, isolate the telling variable. You are familiar with the scientific method? You would have studied it at your Muggle school, if I am not mistaken."

Potter's mouth hung open. Snape forbore to mention it, though his lips twitched in amusement.

"Even the Muggles get things right sometimes, Potter, and it behooves us to learn from any valid source. The Muggle science that most closely resembles potion making is…"

"Chemistry!" Potter exclaimed, and Snape nodded.

"Just so. However, they fail to recognize that some aspects of physics and metaphysics must be taken into account."

Potter looked utterly befuddled, as if he was having difficulty integrating the idea of Muggle science and wizardly magic.

"Let's save the lecture for another time, shall we?" Snape suggested. "What did you have planned for today – if I might ask? Minerva will be back this evening. I'll need to dine with her. You're welcome to join us, unless she informs me otherwise."

As he spoke, Potter gradually seemed to lose the confidence or… presence… he had conveyed this morning.

"Something wrong?"

The boy, his face pale, was silent for the space of several seconds. Snape could see thoughts chasing each other across his expressive face. He shook his head slightly in disapproval before he realized that that was an attitude that belonged to another time. There was no Voldemort to Occlude against, thank Merlin and all the gods! He forced his own face to relax.

"I… I need to do something…"

Snape watched but the boy did not go on. "So you've been saying. Something I can help you with?" he offered, as he had once before, though more cautiously, perhaps.

The boy swallowed as if he was trying not to be sick. Snape waited.

"I… I told Dumbledore…"

Snape's right hand spasmed as if he were grabbing for his wand… or something to throw. He invoked a calming ritual. His argument with the former headmaster was between him and Dumbledore, and he did not want to drag the boy into it.

"…that I would… that I would put the Elder Wand… back where Voldemort found it," the boy said, swallowing against what Snape recognized as fear. "But… I… I thought I could do it once everyone was gone, but… but now, I'm…"

"What is it you're afraid of, Potter?" Snape asked quietly, without judgment. He thought he knew, but he couldn't help unless the boy acknowledged it.

"I just… I just don't want to see it – Dumbledore's body, I mean. It'll be all…" he stopped, swallowing convulsively, pushing his plate away.

Snape drummed lightly on the table with the fingers of one hand, the other at his lips as he observed the boy. "Potter… do you know how old Dumbledore was when… he died?"

The boy looked up. "No, not really. Why?"

"He was a hundred and sixteen."

The boy gaped at him. "Ron and Hermione and I… we were just joking. I didn't…"

Snape nodded understandingly. "Wizards live longer than Muggles. Our magic protects us…"

"But… I thought… Nicholas Flamel… the Stone…"

"Yes, but Nicholas Flamel was _hundreds _of years old. Wizards do not live forever, but it is not uncommon for us to live as long as one hundred and fifty. Dumbledore would have lived for years yet, had it not been for that damned ring – and all the rest."

Potter shook his head. "But what does that have to do with…?"

Snape cocked his head, considering. "That same magic protects our bodies for a while after we die. They don't decay as quickly as do Muggles'. It takes a while for the magic to fade away, back into the earth, the air, water… years, even, unless consumed by fire. Dumbledore's body is likely to look much as it did the day he died."

The boy looked both relieved and disturbed by that, but he did not say anything at first. Finally, he said, "I still don't know if I can do it."

"It's a difficult decision, to give up that kind of power."

The boy waved that consideration away, shaking his head in emphatic denial. "No. It's not that. It's just… I still don't know if I can face him, see him like that."

Snape took a breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. _How do I do this?_

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Would…" Potter looked up at him almost pleadingly. "Would you do it with me?"

"I will accompany you, if you wish. And if there is something I can do to help – something you _want _me to do – I will… but I rather think this is something _you_ need to do. I cannot – _will_ not – do it for you. It has to be your choice."

"…I know."

Snape watched the boy wrestle with his revulsion and anxiety, saw him gather his courage, and admired that. When at last the boy looked up and nodded, he nodded back, feeling something shift inside him.

"I need to bathe first. Why don't you set up our experiment while I do that? Get out the ingredients for the Dreamless Sleep Draught. We can do it when we get back."

"What – _now_? I mean… we're going to do it now?" The boy's voice went up an octave. Snape rather understood that.

He looked out the window. The sky was cloudless, though the wind was blowing in from the lake, suggesting that would not last. Nevertheless, this business called for a sunny morning if ever a ritual did – Potter needed that.

"No time like the present – _if_ you are ready," he stressed.

The boy gulped and nodded.

"Take care of the lab, then. I'll go get dressed."

When he had bathed and dressed, he went to the lab, where the boy was indeed busy setting up two identical work stations, across from each other.

"No – put them side by side," he suggested.

"Why?" The question was not impertinent – just interested.

"If we're going to study the effects of just one variable – who makes the potion – we will want to identify any difference in our procedure. That's easier side by side than trying to analyze each other's movements across from each other."

"Oh. Okay."

While the boy moved things to the same side of the work table, Snape pulled out a number of items, including a large, shallow bowl which he filled from a large pitcher. "Water from the Black Lake," he said in reply to the boy's questioning look. "You bathed this morning, did you?"

"Yes… why?"

"This is a ritual cleansing. It protects us – and Dumbledore – body and spirit. Come over here and stand next to me. Wash your face with this water – no don't wipe it off, leave it wet." He followed his own instructions, copying Potter's movements. "Now face me. Put out your hands. Over the bowl. Yes, that's it."

Snape poured water from the pitcher over Potter's extended hands. "Now turn them over." He repeated the dousing. "Flip again." He wet Potter's hands and wrists a third time. "Now do mine," he said, and held his hands palms up, palms down, and palms up as Potter poured water over them.

He took a dark brown vial from the table. It smelled of lavender even before he opened it. He allowed one drop to fall to his hand, then placed the bottle on the table. He dipped his finger in the drop and looked up to see Potter watching him intently. "May I?" he asked.

"What are you going to do?"

"Protect you. And myself."

"From what?"

"I don't know. It just… seems advisable. And… I'm going to absolve you of guilt – for opening his crypt."

Potter swallowed and nodded. "Okay."

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy, shook his head slightly in admiration, watching the boy master his fear, and said quietly, "I will need your absolution as well." Potter nodded.

Snape placed his now-oily fingertip on Potter's forehead, just above the bridge of his nose, rubbing in a slight circular motion, then touched the same finger lightly to the boy's temples and over the boy's heart. "_Ego te absolvo_," he murmured. "Now do the same to me." He walked the boy through it.

He wiped his hands on a piece of raw, unbleached cotton then turned to regard the boy intently. "Are you okay with this, Potter?"

The boy hesitated but nodded.

"All right then. Go fetch that wand." On his way out the door, he picked up the cloth, the lavender, and a bottle of lake water.

He stood guard at Potter's door while the boy opened the trunk along the wall, reached in and pulled out the wand in question. Snape lifted his chin to the holly wand sitting on the boy's nightstand, indicating he should take it as well, but interrupted the boy's reach. "Your other hand," he said. Potter picked up the holly wand in his left hand, leaving the Elder Wand in his right, though he held it as if it made him sick. Snape nodded, stepped aside to let him leave the room, then strode ahead of him to open the door.

"Touch nothing on your way out."

The boy nodded. Snape held his arm as they went down the steps toward the front entrance, steadying him. They walked down the wide stone stairway in front of the castle, and he turned them sharply left toward the Black Lake and Dumbledore's tomb, keeping a light touch on the boy's elbow.

When they arrived at Dumbledore's tomb, he left Potter standing near the head, and paced a clockwise circle. Back at the boy's side, he murmured, "Incendio," and a light, barely visible wall of flame surrounded them. The boy gasped but stood firm. Snape wondered how, in the name of Merlin, Potter was managing that, in light of his earlier distress, and his respect for the boy ratcheted up several notches.

"A warding," Snape murmured in his ear. "It turns away the eye so no one sees what we do here." He turned to look at the boy. "Do you want me to do this part?" The boy nodded, and Snape pulled his wand from his sleeve, barely moving it, yet somehow indicating the whole of the tomb. The stone over Dumbledore's body slid gracefully, silently, to the other side, hovered, then lowered slowly to the ground.

And there he was… the headmaster, indeed looking like he was merely sleeping peacefully. Snape shook his head looking at him. Somehow, all the anger that he felt at the man peaked, then faded, replaced by a dull ache that he recognized as grief, loss, regret. At his side, he felt the boy trembling. He touched the boy's elbow and met his eyes, compassion warming his own.

He tried to fill his mind with all the acceptance and reassurance he felt toward the boy at that moment. Potter must have seen some of it, or read it in his open mind, because he straightened his shoulders and nodded.

"Follow my lead," Snape murmured, deliberately keeping his mind open, willing the boy to read him. Potter nodded. Turning back to Dumbledore, Snape said, "_Ignosce nobis, Albus. Redeundum est ad vos. Custodi bene._"

He turned to the boy and nodded. The boy hesitated, but Snape held the eye contact until the boy nodded in understanding. Potter cleared his throat. "We beg your pardon, Professor Dumbledore. I need to return something to you… like I promised. Guard it for me?" He stole a look at Snape, who nodded in approval. Then he took two steps forward and placed the Elder Wand, at last, in the hands of the former headmaster.

The boy heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, a weight clearly lifted off his shoulders. When he stepped back beside Snape, trembling slightly, Snape touched his shoulder momentarily in approval and support. For several long moments, the two of them contemplated the peaceful face of the greatest wizard who had lived in their time. Then Snape took a deep breath. "Ready?" he asked. He felt, rather than saw, the boy nod, giving another, more comfortable sigh.

"Gratias, Albus. Thank you. Volumus te in pace," Snape said.

"Gratias, Professor… thank you. I hope you are at peace," the boy said.

Waving his wand a second time, Snape replaced the stone. Then he turned back to the boy and indicated he should hold out his wand hand. He poured water onto the cloth and washed the boy's hand. He dripped lavender onto the boy's palm and rubbed it well in, getting between the fingers right up to their tips, and back down to the boy's wrist, well up toward his elbow. He worked carefully, firmly, yet gently, almost meditatively, and did not note the struggle on the boy's face, though the boy did not object. Then he indicated that the boy should transfer the holly wand to his wand hand.

"Do you remember the warding spell?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do it now. Ward his tomb. That way, the wand will be safe – and so will you."

"Do it with me?" the boy asked, his voice strained.

"Potter…"

"Please, Professor."

Silence. _Potter's choice._

"As you wish."

They performed it together, Potter's hand over Snape's, both touching the stone under which the great man lay. As Snape went to move his hand away, the boy pressed it harder to the stone, and Snape inhaled sharply as he gathered the boy's intent.

_Gather your intent…_

_Here is the gesture…_

"_Manu mea est tuum," _the boy said, looking into his eyes. My hand is yours. "_Manu tua meum est." _Your hand is mine. "_Eligere._" Choose.

_Potter…?_

He felt the boy's magic move through his hand. He stared into the boy's eyes, holding his breath a moment. He inhaled deeply and shut his eyes.

_Potter…_

"I don't want this," he said. "I don't want access to the wand… I don't want the wand. I told you…"

"I know, Professor. I know. That's why I can trust you."

He opened his eyes and exhaled. The boy looked… haunted. He could not ask – the wizarding world _should_ not ask – the boy to carry this alone. He nodded. "_Sic eligere…_" he breathed finally, and looking the boy in the eyes, repeated, "_Sic sumo_. I so choose." _… I so choose_.

They stood some minutes more. Finally the boy drew a deep breath and exhaled a long sigh.

"You all right?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine. Dumbledore… he told me not to… he told me 'Don't pity the dead – pity the living, and most of all, those who live without love.'"

Snape shook his head and snorted. "Indeed."

He left the boy's side and walked counterclockwise around Dumbledore's tomb, his right hand out as if he were scooping the barely-visible flames into his hand. They quenched as he went. With a final squeeze of his hand, as if extinguishing the last of them, he returned to the boy's side.

"What about that potion, then?" he asked. "Let's get back."

* * *

This was Chapter 18 of 30. Continuing...


	20. Dinner with Minerva

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling's amazing world and characters; my plot; my Latin or High Latin spellwork. Please let me know what you think...

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DINNER WITH MINERVA

They worked side by side, Snape matching his pace to the boy's less certain one, unaccountably comforted by the boy's presence and the fact that they were once again working in harmony. The task would settle the boy, as potion-making always settled him, something calming… something healing… something for the living.

His long-practiced brewing of this potion nearly, but not quite, automatic – he would never allow himself that level of inattention – allowed him to track the boy's motions and measurements as they completed the steps in unison. When both cauldrons were bubbling identically, he leaned against one stool, his long arms crossed over his chest, mentally reviewing their work. The boy's had been nearly as precise and economical as his own, though slower and less confident. He waved that aside as a consideration; the effects of that were known – it contributed to the difference in saturation or depth of hue, lightening the potion, as the boy's intent was less sure.

"So – Professor…?" Potter asked.

He shook his head. "As far as I can tell, you did that perfectly, Potter."

The boy flushed and looked relieved.

"Is that how you did it before?"

The boy nodded.

"No difference that you can recall? No more or less careful, perhaps, a slight difference in measurements?"

"No. I… I knew you'd check, so I was careful. And I didn't want to poison myself…"

Snape nodded. "How long did you let it simmer?" he asked, eyeing their cauldrons.

"Seven minutes."

Snape nodded again, and noted the boy checking the battered watch he wore on his left wrist.

"Ah… professor…"

"Yes – thirty seconds," Snape said, his own internal clock as precise, after years of timing potions, as the boy's watch.

They allowed their potions to cool – precisely seven minutes – then decanted them into two identical vials. Potter snorted in frustration, and Snape looked at him curiously.

"See? Yours is different. It looks… stronger," the boy said.

_Ah._ Snape hesitated, but proceeded. If the boy was going to be mixing potions, he might as well.

"The depth of color is irrelevant – at least the depth of color in this potion is irrelevant. Yours is the same as mine – simply lighter. That, however, is merely due to the differences in our… ages."

Potter looked confused at that.

"You recall that I mentioned Muggle chemists fail to take into account physics and metaphysics?"

The boy nodded.

"An older wizard's potions typically have a darker tone than a younger potion maker's because the older of the two typically has more… depth of experience – life experience… carries more baggage, if you will. More precisely, you will find that the potions you make as you get older will be deeper in tone than those you made when younger.

The boy looked confused. This could take a while. Snape settled onto the stool, swinging it idly from side to side. The boy's lips twitched.

"Master potioners can identify each other's potions. Any two experienced potion makers, making the same potion, will nevertheless differ slightly. One measures with a heavy hand, one lightly; one avoids or minimizes a particular ingredient when possible, one appreciates its contributions overly much; one has a subtle touch, the other more coarse. In addition, some are more rigid in following traditional recipes, others more likely to add or subtract or alter those for a more subtle, elegant result."

Potter nodded. "That makes sense, Professor, but… how would _age _make a difference?"

"You have heard, perhaps, of Schrodinger's cat?"

"Whose?"

"Hmm… I will have to provide you with some readings, I see." He made a note on a scrap of parchment, then looked up, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Perhaps Miss Granger will read them and explain it to you."

Potter grinned sheepishly.

"Suffice it to say that the observer – in this case, the potion maker – has an effect on what is being observed."

Potter was clearly confused by that.

"When you cast a spell, especially a more advanced spell, we teach you to gather your intent. Why?"

"Because if you're not clear about what you want to have happen – oh!"

Snape nodded. "Precisely. It is only mental, Potter. If it were enough to 'swish and flick' and incant correctly to create the effect, Filch would not be a Squib, would he? And a Muggle would be merely a person who had not bothered to pick up a skill, just as most wizards don't bother to learn to drive a car."

"Can you drive a car?" Potter asked, diverted.

"No – I have never seen the necessity. That is beside the point, Potter. Focus!"

The boy grinned.

"Without the gathering of intent, without the impact of _mind, _there is no spell – it simply does not work. Why did Neville Longbottom have such trouble learning to fly? Or construct a potion? Or transfigure a teacup into a rat?"

"Because… because he didn't think he could."

"Precisely."

"So you're saying… magic works because we _believe _it does?"

"In part. There is still the requirement to have the potential. Squibs and Muggles are real. However, the potency of one's magic depends in part on the potency of one's belief."

"Wait – do you mean your potion works better than mine because I _think _it does?"

Snape watched the boy struggle with that for a moment. "In part that is likely to be true. However, what I meant is that it likely works better because _I _believe more strongly that it will."

"So I don't believe in my magic as much as you believe in yours?" the boy asked forlornly.

_Tricky. Pivotal._

"Not at all, Potter. You are simply less comfortable with potions. That is to be expected. As you gain experience, your confidence will achieve the level of a predictable constant, added to each potion as an ingredient, if you will, strengthening it."

The boy looked relieved at that, nodding. "So that's why potions of older wizards are stronger."

"Typically. And… that's a likely difference, yes."

"But – it's also that _I_ _believe_ in your potions more than I believe in mine…"

"That is another likely difference, yes," Snape said, leaving the two of them to ponder the implications of that.

c

Minerva returned mid-afternoon, and must have come down nearly immediately after unpacking her things. Snape had set the boy to work on another potion, a restorative, before lunch, which they had eaten rather hastily, wanting to keep an eye on their cauldrons, simmering in the other room. Potter had watched Snape curiously as he meditated momentarily before returning to the lab.

"Clear your mind," Snape had said when he opened his eyes and saw the boy's expression. "Control your emotions. Gather your intent…"

Potter nodded. Snape rose to return to the lab. When he turned to see if the boy was following, he saw the boy close his eyes. He smiled to himself and went to check their brews.

It took them a couple repetitions before they heard Minerva's tapping. Snape looked up and Potter, catching his motion, did likewise. The boy eyed the liquid in the cup Snape was holding, which was hissing ominously.

"Want me to get that, Professor?"

Snape nodded. "Thank you."

"Potter!" Snape heard McGonagall say. "What are you…? Never mind. Where is Professor Snape?"

"Oh – we're in the lab," the boy said. "Come on in, Professor."

There was a silence and Snape could practically hear McGonagall's wheels turning as she followed the boy to the door of the lab. He carefully set down the hissing, steaming potion – he'd have to start over, but that bothered him rather less than it would have typically, for some reason.

"Severus – would you rather I…?"

"No, no, Minerva. It's perfectly all right," he said, conjuring a padded stool for the Headmistress. "Come in. Do you want to wrap that for later or keep working?" he asked Potter, nodding to the boy's carefully measured dry ingredients.

"If it's all right with you, Professor, I'll keep working," the boy said, his attention already back on his work.

Snape nodded. When he turned to Minerva, he caught a confused smile on her face as she looked from him to the boy. _Well, he couldn't blame her for that. It had been a long week._

"So – Headmistress, how is the Ministry?" he said to get her attention off the boy, lest her gaze make him nervous. He wasn't _that _unconcerned about wasting potion ingredients.

She settled herself on the stool at the end of the table, well away from Potter's workspace. "Still a bureaucracy," she said, shaking her head. "Though Kingsley's certainly a huge improvement on the last two idiots!"

He silently agreed with that assessment, but lifted an eyebrow at her usual acerbic tone.

"Arthur mentioned you two had been to visit the Burrow…"

"Yes. We went… shopping in Diagon Alley."

She looked around, noting, he knew, the lack of his previous possessions but, discrete as ever, she made no comment.

Potter finished what he'd been doing and began tidying up.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" she asked. "Why on earth aren't you at the Burrow?"

Snape hesitated. His impulse was to answer for the boy, to shield him, but the potions lesson seemed to have settled the boy, as he had intended. The boy dusted his hands off over the table, then turned calmly to McGonagall and said, "I had some things to do here before I took a holiday, Professor. Professor Snape and I are going back there on Sunday, aren't we, Professor?"

c

They dined in McGonagall's quarters, Snape squaring his shoulders uncomfortably as he and Potter ascended the spiral stair. Dumbledore's portrait appeared to be sleeping, though Snape knew that was almost certainly a sham. He wondered if the former Headmaster or any of the other portraits had said anything to Minerva about what had happened here a week ago. Phineas nodded supportively at him from his portrait as they entered, and Snape nodded back, somewhat comforted.

Minerva ordered the meal, eyeing the two of them and sniffing disapprovingly, turning a querying eye on Snape as if she suspected he'd been starving the boy. Snape looked at the boy appraisingly – still thin, perhaps a bit less pale. The boy needed to get out, get back to his friends. The thought left him feeling unaccountably lonely. He shook it off.

He diverted Minerva with questions about the doings at the Ministry, but the look in her eyes indicated she knew what he was doing. She allowed it, however, right through their meal, dishing both him and Potter second, and then third, helpings – which Potter ate, but he did not – and ending with obscenely large slices of warm, cinnamon-scented apple pie and hot tea.

Finally, she sat back in her chair and eyed the two of them beadily.

"You both should have received owls from the Ministry," she began.

Snape and Potter exchanged startled, guilty looks, and looked down at their plates. He missed Minerva's amused look, but heard it in her tone. "I expected to see your awards prominently displayed in your quarters."

Snape twisted a shoulder in uncomfortable rejection of that. _I wonder what the boy did with his? He bloody well __deserves__ an award – a damned sight more than I do! _Not that either of them needed the gesture… or the monetary award that accompanied the honor._ In fact, _he decided, _that could be put to better use… go to the scholarship fund, perhaps._

He looked up. McGonagall was still eyeing them both warmly. He shrugged and waved a hand, fending it off, then stole a look at the boy.

He looked just as uncomfortable – perhaps more so, even paling a bit under McGonagall's stare. He moved his foot to the side, nudging the boy's toes. The boy glanced at him and their shared discomfort seemed to reassure or strengthen him because he straightened his shoulders. Snape glared at McGonagall in warning, as if she were personally responsible for the boy's discomfort, and her eyes crinkled in another warm smile, this time for Snape alone.

"I'm not particularly interested in an award, Professor," the boy said quietly. "And… I don't want or need the money. Could it… could it be put into a fund for the… the families…?"

"I concur, Headmistress," Snape said immediately.

If anything, Minerva's eyes warmed even more, and she nodded. "I'll see to the arrangements, Potter, Severus. You will, of course, have to appear before the Wizengamot and the press…"

The boy's head shot up at the same moment Snape strangled out a "_No!_" His arm flung out in front of the boy as if shielding him from harm. The boy leaned his forehead against Snape's arm and Snape could feel him trembling. Without a thought, he moved the arm behind the boy, supporting him around his shoulders, clasping his arm with his other hand.

"No – I'll not allow it!" he said. _How could they even __think__…?_

"Severus…"

"No!" he repeated. "I won't allow them to put Potter through that. You have no idea…"

He stopped. It was not his story to tell. He looked at Potter and found the boy staring at him, pleadingly. He shook his head at the boy. "You do _not_ have to do this, Potter." _I won't let them do this to you, _he thought at the boy, willing the boy to read his thoughts.

The boy nodded and sagged back against Snape's arm, still trembling. Snape kept one supporting hand on the back of the boy's neck as he turned to McGonagall. He was confused to find her smiling and nodding, her eyes bright, as she looked from him to the boy.

"As you wish, Severus," she said.

The two professors moved the discussion to other, safer topics, but Potter's face continued to reflect his distress, alternating between flushed and pale. Snape found the boy repeatedly shaking his head, obviously trying to clear his mind of unwanted images. Finally, after fending off her questions as to their activities over the past week with tales of potions and shopping trips, he could tolerate it no longer, and abruptly and curtly cut off McGonagall's latest query.

"I'm sorry, Headmistress, but this will have to keep until tomorrow. It's past the boy's bedtime. Come, Potter," he said, pushing back his chair and pulling the boy to his feet, "Let's go home."

His focus on the boy, he missed McGonagall's sudden comprehension and broad smile. By the time he looked back, she had schooled her expression and wished them a good night, seeing them to the door.

He did not hear the "Well… that's promising," from one of the portraits, nor Minerva's "Indeed, Albus."

c

His wand lit and pointed at the floor, Snape guided the boy down the stairs and through the castle to Gryffindor Tower, nodding occasionally in response to some portrait's "Goodnight, Professor," working the nods past his clenched jaw. He was infuriated at the Headmistress' suggestion that the boy be subjected to the press. The thought of Rita Skeeter grilling the boy and twisting his words enraged him. While he realized, in part, that such news stories, interviews and the like were nearly inevitable, his mind worked frantically to figure out how he could protect the boy from all that, especially once the boy left the school in the fall…

…to do what? Work for the Ministry? Live alone and secluded at Grimmauld Place? His stomach churned at either possibility. Perhaps the boy should go abroad, wait for the furor to die down… But his stomach rejected that, too, only partly mollified by his sudden urge to take the boy away, protect him from it all. He rejected that as well – _Not realistic… not desirable… not fair._

Pondering the near impossibility of the boy's position, he kept a supportive hand on Potter's shoulder, even as he uttered the password to their quarters. He gave the boy a small push toward his room. Potter took a few steps and slowed to a halt, staring at nothing. Snape warded their door from within, watched the boy a moment, and sighed.

"Come on, Potter," he murmured. He hesitated at the boy's warded door, then, recalling the _Manu mea…_ at Dumbledore's tomb, placed his hand on the knob and felt the ward give way. In mixed relief and wonder at that, he opened the door and pushed the boy through. Potter walked to his bed, but stood unmoving at its side. Snape shook his head and conjured a chair, pushed the boy to a sitting position on the bed, sat in the chair and pulled off the boy's shoes and socks.

"Come on, Potter, off with your shirt… that's it," he said as the boy cooperated with his instructions. He looked around. Where were the boy's pajamas? _Accio pajamas,_ he thought, and was only mildly surprised when his own black pajamas zoomed in from the other room. Putting off thinking about the implications of that, he tossed them at the boy and waited until he changed.

He went to dose the boy with his own dreamless sleep potion, but the boy came alert enough to ask, "Can I have yours?" He hesitated, then switched the vials and handed his to the boy. After a swallow, the boy leaned against his pillows. Snape pulled the covers up around him and went to leave the room.

"Professor…" the boy murmured. Snape turned back. The boy was on his back, staring at the ceiling. "What am I going to do?"

He sighed, returned to the chair and sat. _Good question. _It wasn't as if the boy had a teaching position to retreat to as Snape had, Minerva making a place for him at the school where Hogwarts' walls and defenses provided protection against the curious and the unwanted. When the boy left these walls in September – or earlier if he chose – he'd be vulnerable to predatory media as well as Death Eaters and others who would like to take down the boy who had interrupted their plans for world domination. How in Merlin's name was he supposed to protect the boy from _that_?

_It's not your job anymore_, he reminded himself.

_Says who? The fact that Voldemort's dead doesn't mean the boy's out of danger… doesn't mean you're done protecting him. Who's he supposed to turn to? He's too young to be fatherless..._

_He's got Arthur… Not your job… not your place…_

_Too bad – I'm doing it._

_What if he doesn't __want__ you doing it? _His stomach clenched at that. _What's wrong with you? Let the boy go…_

He forced his mind back to the boy's dilemma.

"What do you _want _to do, Potter?" he asked.

Potter's mouth quirked in a sad smile, his eyes beginning to glaze over. Snape reached out a hand to brush the fringe of dark hair from the boy's eyes. The boy closed his eyes at Snape's touch and sighed.

"I want to stay here," he said.

The boy's eyes drifted shut as the sleep potion worked its magic. Snape prayed the boy would indeed have a dreamless, nightmare-free night.

_I want to stay here._

Snape glanced around the boy's room, his mind supplying _wardrobe, desk, rug, bookshelf, Quidditch supplies…_

_No,_ he told himself. _Stop this! _It was just the boy's momentary desire, the desire of a tired, overwhelmed mind, body and spirit for safety, familiarity. Besides, the boy meant _Here – Hogwarts _not _Here – Snape's quarters._ Better unwrap his mind from _that_.

_Bloody hell,_ he thought without heat. He shook his head. _Bloody hell. How had that happened? How had he __allowed__ that to happen? _He watched the boy sleep, his eye movements those of peaceful rest rather than agitated dreaming, the light from the fireplace flickering over the boy's face, alternating shadow and light.

_Potter,_ he thought in a growl. He sighed and shook his head again. He laid his hand gently on the boy's head a moment, then rose and took himself to his study, where he spent the next several hours pretending to read while actually contemplating the flames in the fireplace, the image of Potter sleeping wending its way into his mind and heart, before he, too, took himself off to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

That was Chapter 19 of 30. Oh, no! Into the home stretch. Noooooooooo! Read at your own risk.


	21. Consultations

**Disclaimer: ** Queen Rowling's characters, setting and the like; my High Latin spellwork, my plot. Probably more my fault than hers, really... tho Sev and Harry seemed willing enough. I think they liked playing. What about you? How are you liking it so far?

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

CONSULTATIONS

When he woke the next morning, the boy was already up and moving in his room next door. Snape bathed and dressed, and left his room just as Potter left his.

"Let's eat in the Great Hall. The Headmistress will be expecting us," he said.

The boy flushed and looked down, hesitated as if he wanted to say something, then nodded. They walked to the Great Hall in silence. The boy obviously had something on his mind, but Snape let him be, puzzling over his own thoughts and feelings_._

Trelawney, Firenze and Filch joined them at the table for an impromptu staff meeting, to discuss the progress of cleaning and continued repairs. Peeves zoomed overhead, occasionally shooting spit balls at Potter, who merely waved them away. When his increasing efforts to get a rise out of the boy failed, he turned his attention to Mrs. Norris, who chased after the spitballs and swatted them like flies.

McGonagall reported that Hagrid and Grawp were enjoying France; Filius' oldest son had presented him with a grandson; Sinistra was on her way to her mother's from Egypt. Talk turned to finding a Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Snape suggested McGonagall enquire of the Order and the Auror's office.

"Which reminds me, Potter," McGonagall said. "Robards wished me to enquire whether it is still your desire to be an Auror."

"Oh! Yes – yes, Professor… that is… if I qualify. I thought I had to take NEWT level courses and earn my NEWTs."

"Robards is willing to forego that requirement in your case."

Snape opened his mouth to protest, but shut it. _Not my call_. He waited for the boy's reply. Potter shoved pieces of his waffle around on his plate with his fork.

"I…" He let out a breath. "I was wondering if there was a way I could… make up… last year," he said.

Snape sat still save for his eyes, which he turned to McGonagall.

"Potter, that is hardly necessary. I think you have proven yourself Auror material – you _and_ several of your classmates!"

Snape narrowed his eyes at that, taking inventory.

Weasley had already made it plain he planned to help his brother George at his store – a task that was certain to be both time consuming and emotionally demanding. Though, no doubt, he would make a fine Auror. Snape shook his head at the memory of the boy diving into a frozen pond to rescue his mate. _Gryffindors. _He snorted softly.

Neville Longbottom would be wasted as an Auror, despite the extraordinary courage he had shown confronting Voldemort. Snape's breath caught at the mere thought of it. He hoped _that _had been accorded an Order of Merlin, First Class. He'd nominate the boy himself if the blasted Ministry had not seen fit to recognize the boy's heroic act, not to mention his leadership amongst the students, keeping them safe and resisting the bloody Carrows' horrific torture, at great risk and increasing personal cost. In any case, the boy had such a clear calling for herbology it would be near criminal for him to pursue any other profession. If anything, he should take up advanced studies with Sprout or her colleagues elsewhere.

Hermione Granger, of course, was gifted at nearly everything she turned her brilliant mind to, he assessed honestly. The Aurors would be lucky to nab the girl. Perhaps the past year had turned her interests in that direction. He could hardly blame her if she wished to hunt down dark wizards and witches after what she'd been through.

And it would be an equally natural calling for Potter… He certainly had the talent in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and was developing a dab hand at potions, Snape admitted, with a flash of something like… pride.

Potter shook his head. "Ron's not coming back, but Hermione will be frantic if she can't get her NEWTs, and Neville – he wants to continue with Professor Sprout, he told me. I'd… I'd like to take classes, Professor… if… if there's room for me…" He wrung his hands over his breakfast.

Minerva's eyes softened at that. "I assure you, Mr. Potter," she said in a soft voice, "you are welcome here as long as you wish to stay. If you and Neville are willing to camp in with last year's sixth years…"

"Oh…" the boy said. "I…" He hesitated, flicked his eyes to Snape and away, then fell silent.

Snape observed him for a moment then straightened to look at Minerva. "The boy is currently sleeping in the spare room in my quarters, Minerva. I see no reason to disrupt him if he finds that arrangement acceptable. I find I… need rather less space for my things than I had anticipated. And it would alleviate crowding in the seventh year dormitory. Of course," he said, turning to the boy, "it is entirely your choice, Potter."

He held his face as neutral as he could, his mind open to the boy's. _Choose,_ he thought at the boy. And let the boy see his acceptance of his choice, either way, though he could not… chose not to… keep his own choice from his mind.

"I'd… I'd appreciate that, Professor," the boy said quietly.

"Well, that's settled then," McGonagall said, a shade too quickly to Snape's ears, and he eyed her suspiciously. She had the nerve to smile at him and wink. _Cheeky woman! _"If you'll join me in my study after breakfast, Mr. Potter, we will plan your courses. Robards will want to join us, if you don't mind."

The boy nodded. "Thank you, Professor," he said, and attacked his waffle with an appetite.

As the boy's morning would be consumed with academic and career planning, Snape decided to take a turn around the grounds, fortifying the defenses of the castle and its walls. He left the castle with Firenze, who added his voice and unique spells to the area around the forest, then circled past the main gates, the cavern where the first years' boats drew up on September first, and from there along the lake shore to where it backed up to the castle.

Walking the lakeshore, he'd glanced at the graveyard. His previous wish to have a drink with Lupin returned, so when he finished the fortification, he turned back along the lake and let his feet take him to the graveyard.

As he had seen Potter do, he stopped at grave markers from time to time, uttering a wish for peaceful rest, recalling his interactions with those he knew, allowing himself to… feel. At last he came up to the last three stones.

"By your leave, Nymphadora," he said, his lips twitching in a smile as he heard, _Don't __call__ me 'Nymphadora!'_ in his mind. "By your leave, Fred," and heard the twin's snort and laughter at being addressed so formally. "I'd like to have a word with Lupin, here…"

He conjured two glasses, thought better of it and conjured a third, and caught a bottle of fire-whiskey mid-air, despite the early hour. He poured three drinks… added a fourth, bowing sardonically in Tonks' direction, and placed one tumbler on top of each of the three gravestones.

"To life," he said hoarsely, lifting his glass in a toast and taking a sip. More than the fire-whiskey burned its way down his throat. Then he sipped from Fred's glass and said, "Safe journey, Fred." He tipped the rest of the whiskey onto Fred's grave and set the glass upside down on the marker, patting the stone with his hand. He repeated the devotion at Tonks' grave. Turning back to the middle marker, however, he folded his long form to the ground to sit cross-legged opposite it, picturing Lupin across from him at the table at Grimmauld Place.

"So… old friend," he murmured, wishing that had been so, regret filling him for the loss of that possibility, now. "What brought you down, eh?" He imagined Lupin fell protecting Tonks… or that they fell protecting each other, love most definitely not the strongest magic this time, despite the claim on Tonks' tomb. He wondered who was watching their child – yet one more orphan created at the hands of Voldemort and his minions… and wondered if he should add that, too, to the endless list of those who died or lost loved ones because of him. Then he kicked himself. _That's not what you're here for._

He wondered if the couple had died together, and found he hoped they had… imagined they might have died defending students… and his heart and stomach again clenched in guilt and loss and despair. But that, too, was not why he was here.

He needed to talk about Potter.

Where to begin… "He's… he's a good boy." What else was there to say? _He's a good boy_. An infinitely better person than Snape had ever been, especially in light of… the Dursleys'… the loss of his parents… his fame… An infinitely braver boy-man than Snape.

_Sometimes I think we sort too soon…_

_Welcome to Gryffindor, Mr. Snape… I know you will be a credit to your house._

He snorted and shook his head. No. Potter was an infinitely braver man than he. He sat lost in the memory of all the boy had been through until he felt Lupin's ghostly tap on his shoulder, or so he imagined.

"Sorry, Remus… got lost there for a bit." _Of course, I'm generally feeling lost these days. _He forced himself to pay attention, looking Remus in the eye over their imagined table.

"What do I do with this, Lupin? I never expected to care for the boy… never expected…" He sighed. "You loved him – all of you – you, Sirius, Tonks, Mad-Eye even… _You_ were good for him, _to_ him," he said, bitterly ruing his own treatment of the boy, wanting to believe it was only the necessary sham he'd played to fool Voldemort, but knowing it was not.

He'd been jealous, angry, hurt every time he saw those eyes – Lily's eyes, paired with James Potter's mussed hair. He laughed and shook his head at it now, though – the boy's perpetually uncooperative black hair, his intense, thoughtful, laughing green eyes.

He'd acted out of guilt and loss _and self-hatred_, his treatment of the boy a punishment of himself. His breath caught as he realized it. Eleven year old Potter, despite his friends, reminding him of himself a bit too clearly, clothes too big, body too thin, the Dursleys' neglect of the boy too obvious…

He'd last stood guard the summer the boy turned ten, Arabella Figg once again unavailable, visiting her sick sister, and Mundungus Fletcher eluding his turn to flee some angry customer. Dumbledore had pressed the duty on him just after end of term. "A week, Severus, that's all I ask. Surely you are not in a rush to return to Spinner's End?"

So he'd taken up quarters in Little Whinging at Arabella's place, with her damned cats, and rose before dawn to track the boy until he returned home in the evening. The boy had been gaunt, looked ridiculous in his cousin's hand-me-down clothes. Snape's stomach had twisted uncomfortably and his lip turned up in a sneer, the boy's appearance triggering remembered shame at Petunia's derisive laughter at _his_ appearance when he and Lily were nine.

The boy's cousin and his pack of thugs had chased the boy out of the house that first morning, taunts and jeers followed by punches and kicks once they caught up with the boy, fast though he was.

_Come on, boy, get up!_ Snape had thought angrily, forbidden to intervene except to protect the boy from wizards, not Muggles. _Show some backbone!_ But the boy had curled on the ground, reminding Snape painfully of his own curled-up self, trying to evade his father's or mother's blows.

When his cousin's gang had finally tired of their torture of the boy, he'd sat up and narrowed his eyes at the group as they walked half a block away. Three of the four went down in a tangled heap, the laces of their trainers somehow tied together. The boy grinned until his cousin yelled, "I'm telling Mum and Dad!" The smile left his face, and he scrambled to his feet and ran off to hide in some bushes.

The next day, the boy's face sported bruises and he winced as he worked at chores, screamed at occasionally by his aunt, never fed that Snape could see, dragged into the house by the ear by his uncle after a day's sweaty work. He did not leave the house the rest of the week, and Snape was eventually relieved by another member of the mostly-defunct Order, all of them keeping watch until the boy was old enough for school, though why, exactly, not one of them knew – not even he or Dumbledore.

But it had angered him. He thought the boy weak, ignorant, snivelly… and that brought him up against his own self-hatred so that he hated the boy not only for being James' son, for the green eyes that reminded him of his guilt and his loss, but also because he reminded him of himself.

_The two of you… you're some pair… Both o' you._ _Damned hero complexes._

Snape snorted and shook his head. Lupin called for his attention again, raising his glass. Snape raised his own in salute and drained it. Lupin looked at his glass rather sadly, so Snape got up, took a sip from it for him, and emptied the glass over the man's grave.

"To absent friends… and boys," he said.

Lupin nodded and twitched his shoulder in that way he had… "Take care of him for us," Snape imagined he heard in the werewolf's soft voice.

"…I'm trying." He studied the werewolf a moment longer. "I wish… I wish I had taken the time… I wish we had had the time…" he stopped, grief and regret filling him. He stood a while longer, trying to master it. Finally, "Safe journey, friend," he whispered. Lupin saluted him with a small bow, which Snape returned. He Banished the bottle, but left the tumblers upended on each stone. "I'll be back," he promised. The werewolf nodded, and Snape turned back to the castle.

He busied himself the rest of the day readying his classroom. Slughorn had left it a mess, somehow managing, in his inattention, to leave desks and work tables covered in congealed, failed potions – or perhaps that had been the students' protest against the insanity of the year, a silent rebellion of sorts. That thought actually cheered him, so he cleaned up dangerous ingredients in the corners of the room or stuck to the undersides of desks with rather better humor than he would have expected.

Potter spent most of Friday closeted with Robards, when they had finished with McGonagall. The head Auror stayed for dinner, his proprietary attitude toward the boy irksome to Snape, who had to fight to keep himself from placing a possessive arm across the back of the boy's chair.

Potter looked up at him once, when Robards commented about Potter being "our man, now" – meaning belonging to the Aurors or the Ministry. The boy's eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter, and he let one eye droop in a half wink. Snape quirked a raised eyebrow in response and the boy flashed an answering grin. Snape felt better after that.

Later, in their quarters, though, the boy paced in agitation, until Snape sat him down by the fire to discuss politics and strategy, how to let Robards _think_ he was getting his way, yet remain his _own_ man.

"You haven't signed anything, have you?" Snape asked. "A contract, perhaps?"

"No. He tried, but McGonagall – Professor McGonagall, I mean – sorry, sir – she pointed out I'm still in school – thank God!" the boy breathed. Snape agreed.

"Well don't – not even a deferred contract. And before you sign one next year, have Arthur look it over."

"Would you?"

"Of course I will, if you like, but Arthur's worked at the Ministry his entire career, and he'll catch things I won't."

The boy nodded and sighed in relief. "Thank you, Professor. I don't know what I'd do without… without your help."

Snape narrowed his eyes at that. "Indeed," he drawled, and the boy laughed.

They ended the evening with a game of wizards' chess, which Snape thought would calm the boy's mind. He eventually checkmated the boy, though the boy played a good game. Potter went to the table to pen letters to his friends, and Snape sat reading by the fire until the boy finished and said goodnight. Snape forgot to remind the boy to return his pajamas – not that he didn't have others.

He accepted the boy's offer to help in his potions classroom the next morning, though he did not allow him to clean anything until he identified it and determined it was not dangerous to remove by usual methods. Mostly, he let Potter set up the potions closet, the boy duplicating the organization in the lab in their quarters without prompting.

The boy cocked an eyebrow at Snape when he found him cleaning one small spill by hand rather than using magic. Snape expounded on the virtues of physical work to soothe the mind. Potter snorted unbelievingly at that and Snape flung a handful of suds at the boy. Potter responded in kind, lofting suds from the floor to Snape's ear, the man turning just in time to avoid being hit full-on in the face. Snape fought back, flicking a spout of water from the floor at the boy, who retaliated by flinging a handful of water at Snape's back when he turned a gloating face back to his work. Shortly, they were mid-water fight, which left them dripping and laughing until Snape called a halt for lunch. Still grinning, they dripped their way to their quarters. Snape managed to ignore Filch's offended swiping at his heels with a mop as if he didn't hear the man, though his lips twitched. Potter tried to match his innocent look.

Once dry, Snape suggested a walk to Hogsmeade for lunch, as the day was so pleasant, and Potter readily agreed. They discussed his next term's class schedule, and the boy asked, rather shyly, if he could attend the seventh years' potions class. Snape's agreement was a swiftly given, "Of course," and they discussed the NEWT level topics they would be covering that year.

They entered the Hog's Head deep in conversation, and only looked up when they heard "Severus!" "Harry!"

"Arthur?"

"George! What are youdoing here?" the boy exclaimed, delighted, and hurried to clasp hands with his best mate's older brother.

Arthur clapped the boy on the shoulder, saying, "Harry, good to see you!" before turning to Severus. He clasped Snape's hand in greeting and pulled him to join him and George at their table. "Just finishing lunch ourselves. Join us! Join us!"

"Is everything all right, Arthur?" Snape asked in an undertone, worried by the man's unexpected appearance. _What brought them here? Was something wrong?_

"Oh – yes!" Arthur answered, glancing at his son, deep in conversation with Potter. "Just… doing some shopping with George… looking around… getting some sun…"

_Ah_. Snape suddenly understood and looked from Arthur's strained face to the older boy's still grief-stricken, pale one. He nodded. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Arthur smiled. "Just seeing you two helps," he said quietly. "You're coming for Sunday dinner tomorrow, aren't you – both of you? The whole family will be there. Charlie's on leave for a month, and Bill's still in London, so he'll apparate over as well."

"Certainly," Snape assured him.

Aberforth came over then, his apron a montage of greasy handprints, but a clean bar rag thrown over his shoulder. "What'll it be, Sev, Potter?" he asked. The boy ordered something gut-destroying, while Snape requested a light helping of lamb stew. Aberforth refreshed Arthur and George's drinks and waved over pumpkin juice for Potter and elderberry wine for Snape. When their meals arrived, he joined them, getting up occasionally to take care of other customers.

Among other things, the five of them discussed Potter's decision to seek Auror training after completing his final NEWT year at Hogwarts. George told the boy he was barking, wanting another year at school. Arthur agreed with Snape's counsel to not sign any documents or contracts without letting someone else look them over first, and readily agreed to do so when Potter asked. George chimed in with some advice, as well as an offer to spell any contract to be self-negating at Potter's request, suggesting several methods to arrange for a contract to backfire on the Ministry if they treated Potter unfairly, which actually had them all laughing, including George himself, Snape was glad to see. At the end of the meal, Arthur repeated his reminder that he and Potter join the Weasleys on Sunday, indicating he and George were heading home, their business done for the day.

Snape turned to Potter, inspired by the boy's clear delight in spending time with the two ginger-haired men. "Why don't you go with them – spend the night?" he suggested. He caught Arthur's eye and the man nodded.

"Oh, but… the classroom…"

"… will still be here on Monday, Potter, I assure you," Snape said. "Go on – visit your friends. I'm sure Granger and Weasley would like to see more of you than ten minutes after dinner…" _and Ginny_, he thought in amusement, seeing the thought flicker across the boy's face.

"Yes, do! Molly and the boys would love to see you! Ginny and Hermione too."

"Yeah, come on, Harry. Come home with us."

The plea in George's voice decided the boy. "Are you sure it's all right, Professor?" he asked.

Snape nodded. "Send for anything you need. I'll be at the fire after dinner should you wish to speak with me." The boy nodded, looking oddly relieved, but also excited to see his friends. "Off with you, then," Snape said, smiling and giving the boy a small push.

Arthur grasped his arm in farewell. "Thank you, Severus. You've no idea…"

_Yes, I do_. He nodded.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then, Professor," the boy said. "You're coming for dinner, right?" Snape nodded and the boy smiled.

"Five o'clock – earlier if you like," Arthur said.

The two Weasleys left the pub with Potter. Snape accompanied them to the door and waved them off, watching as they walked up the street and disappeared from view. He turned to find Aberforth watching him, his blue eyes piercing Snape with that same penetrating, knowing look his brother had. Snape narrowed his eyes in a confused glare, then shrugged.

"So when's he goin' ta start callin' you 'Da'?" Aberforth drawled.

"I beg your pardon?" Snape asked, honestly confused, sure he hadn't heard right.

"You heard me," Aberforth said, lifting his chin at the man. "That boy treats you like you're his father. And you treat him like a son. So – when is he goin' ta make that slip, or has he done so already?"

Snape shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

_So what am I supposed to call you then? 'Uncle Severus?' 'Mr. Snape?' 'Dad?'_

"Well that's a bucket of goat dung if I ever heard any," Aberforth said mildly. "The way the boy looks to you for permission… the way he checks with you constantly... He needs you. The question is what are you goin' ta do about it?"

Snape shook his head in denial.

"You'd better figure it out, son," Aberforth said gently. "Because the two of you are headin' toward it full speed, an' you'd better be ready for it when he tells you."

He shook his head again. "Tells me what?"

Aberforth looked at him steadily. "You love him, son. And I'd say that's fast becoming mutual."

Snape stared at him. He shook his head again – twice.

"Figure it out, son… Like I say – he needs you… and you need him."

Snape was suddenly uncomfortably certain that at least half of that statement was true.

* * *

That was Chapter 20 of 30. Two thirds down, one third to go. Keep reading...


	22. Nightmares

**Disclaimer: ** I do not own Severus, Harry, the Weasleys, the Burrow, Hogsmeade or Hogwarts. They belong to Jo Rowling, bless her. The plot and any stray Latin spells are mine and mine alone. Please let me know what you think. Thanks.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NIGHTMARES

He returned to the school on foot, the walk affording him _too much _time to think, he decided as he slipped through the gates to the grounds. He thought over his recent interactions with the boy, shaking his head and twitching his shoulders uncomfortably. He had to stop this… could not allow the boy, could not allow himself, to form an attachment. _For what? A year before the boy went off into the world to be his own man? _There was no point._ Besides, _he told himself, _the boy's only spending time with me because there's no one else in the castle. Who's he __supposed__ to spend his time with? Filch? Trelawney? _He snorted. _When his mates return in September, he'll feel differently about spending time in Gryffindor's dormitories._

The thought was unexpectedly depressing.

_Idiot._

He returned to the classroom to continue his cleaning. Splashes from their water fight in the morning had stained the wainscoted walls, and he cleaned those with a nonverbal spell, chuckling as he recalled a well-placed splat that had made the boy splutter in indignation. He checked the boy's organization of the potions closet, noting with approval that he had left space for additional ingredients and equipment on each shelf. The boy really did have a clever, thoughtful mind, he acknowledged.

He nabbed two identical advanced potions books from the class library and headed back to his quarters to plan NEWT lessons. Once there, he glanced out the window at the still-sunny day. He hoped the boy was getting some sun and air, perhaps playing Quidditch with his friends. He wondered if he should send along the boy's broom…

Some hours later, he straightened from the table and stretched his back, arms and legs. He'd worked too long again, straining his wrist and hands. He'd have to poultice that wrist. He wondered if he would have that problem permanently, Nagini biting too close to bone, too damaging to tendon and sinew for even magic to set perfectly right. He pulled up his left sleeve to examine the spot previously stained by the Dark Mark, rubbing at it as if he could erase the stain from his soul as well. He stopped when he realized he was rubbing it raw, imagining excising the entirety of it – what it represented – with an athame, or even a butter knife.

_Macabre, aren't we tonight, Severus? _he observed sarcastically, and ordered up dinner, taking it to sit in front of the fireplace.

He realized he was still not out of it, not out of the dilemma presented by his survival, when he had expected so completely to die. He was still not out of being a make-believe Death Eater, a double agent, frantically working to protect Potter, protect the school, protect the Order… He was still stuck in it, in survival and sacrifice, still caught as if his death were inevitable, still not knowing _What should I do now? Who am I?_

He had expected to die, knew he was dead, knew the inevitability of it, really, from the day he'd turned spy for the Order, for Dumbledore, the nearly ten year interval between the Dark Lord's disappearance and Potter's appearance at Hogwarts merely a deferral of his expectation that, one way or another, his life would be forfeit, a fair end, though not a fair exchange for Lily's life… or James'.

He'd known it the moment Dumbledore had boxed him into that damned corner: to save Draco's soul, he, Snape, had to take another step toward death. If Voldemort did not discover and kill him, the Order surely would, and who would blame them? This entire past year, he was a dead man, dead already before Voldemort's error, before being called to the shack, before Voldemort set Nagini on him… even before Voldemort showed up to claim that damned wand. McGonagall's parting curse as he fled the castle echoed in his heart, surely enough to die from, regardless of whether her aim was true.

He knew how to be dead. He'd been dead for years – longer, really, than he'd lived, if ever he'd lived. Looking back, he remembered being alive – from nine to fifteen, his life bounded by the years he had met and lost Lily, only flashes of life even then, a tantalizing glimpse of life, a promise which his _Mudblood! _had snuffed out.

He knew how to be dead.

What he did not know was how to _live_… how to survive, how to go on… _What did they do, the undead, those who had a life? What should he do now? Who was he now?_

He did not know.

_I am your protector._

His heart ached with it.

But – what of when Potter did not _need _his protection?

_You and that boy of yours have a problem, son… And it's the same problem. You both carry guilt that is not yours. But neither are you as guilty as you feel, either of you. And you'd better help that boy come to grips with it, Sev, or it'll ruin his life, same as it's nearly ruined yours._

His heart ached with the echo of fifty-four headstones out by the lake, with missing Remus so badly it hurt, with the loss of Mad-Eye… Fred… Dumbledore. He stared into the fire until his eyes burned from the flames and the bits of smoke that the wind blew back down the chimney.

_We're still here, Potter, both of us… and we both have to figure out how to make that all right_.

Potter had been marked for death too, exactly as long as he, Snape, had been, and his breath caught as he knew it – the boy living under the same curse, the same inevitability of death. He wondered when the boy knew it – whether it had been what he'd seen in the Pensieve that had told him he was doomed or damned, or if – _clever boy –_ he had figured it out before. His mind flicked to the vial of memories on the mantle in his room, and he forced down the bile that threatened to work its way up from his gut, not wanting to allow himself to purge his guilt that way, divert his mind that way.

_Face it._

The boy had faced death every year, the inevitability of it pressing ever more closely at his heels, chasing him into Dumbledore's plot, into Voldemort's arms, to be impaled on the wand now lying, safely he could only hope, in Dumbledore's dead hands.

He found himself pacing, not even aware he'd stood up, the habit of worry too strong, retrieving from the not-so-distant past the echo of _We won, Severus. __What does that mean__?_

What does it mean for the boy, first? Yes, the wizarding world and Muggles alike were safe, thank Merlin, from that madman – and he had to swallow bile at that. But what about Potter? What does "_We won"_ mean for _him_? Because what does _he_ do now? His whole life had been chasing Voldemort, knowing, believing he would die. He'd said it.

_I figured I'd still be fighting Voldemort, looking for the last of the horcruxes… I thought it might take years. We all did – me, Ron and Hermione. Or that he would kill me in the end… that I'd be dead by now…_

_What does he do now? _Snape thought. _How does he live, with fifty-four grave markers added to Dumbledore's, Dobby's, Mad-Eye's and Cedric's? How does he live with __that__?_

_I have nothing to teach him,_ he thought, and it nearly made him weep, though he mastered it. _How can I teach him to live if I don't live myself?_

They carried the same burden. _The image of the graveyard, of Charity Burbage twisting slowly over the table in Malfoy Manor, the only thing he had to give was to force himself to meet her eyes, to watch… to bear witness…_ The boy had the same burden. If he, Snape, could not figure out how to live with it, how could he expect the boy to?

His pacing took him for the third time to Potter's door, and on impulse, he pushed it open, the ward melting away at his touch. The boy's bed was made, no doubt by a house elf, as the boy did not have that habit. Black pajamas were folded at the foot of the bed. He left them there. He kicked something under the bed as he went to straighten the boy's pillows. Thinking it might be the boy's broom, he _Accio'd _it without a word. It flew to his hand – the boy's wand in crystal, set in a blazingly white quartz base, the inscription reading

Order of Merlin, First Class  
Awarded this 19 July 1998  
to  
Harry James Potter  
in Gratitude for  
Extraordinary Service to All Wizard and Mugglekind  
1992-1998

He shook his head and sighed. _Poor boy,_ he thought. But he took the crystal and quartz sculpture out to his study and placed it on a shelf at the side of the bookcase nearest his desk.

He read – or tried to – until midnight, sitting by the fire in case Potter or the Weasleys called. Finally, he rose to go to his room, intending to dose himself to sleep, if need be, to stop his mind from spinning, his meditations thoroughly unsuccessful for some reason, his stomach still protesting.

"Severus!" Arthur's head in the fire startled him and he let out a gasp.

"Arthur, what…?"

"Harry!"

Snape's heart stopped then stuttered back into motion.

"Is he –"

"Nightmare! Molly's trying to calm him, but it's not working. Could you…?"

Snape was already on his way to the boy's room. He grabbed both vials of Draught of Dreamless Sleep from the boy's bedside, stuffed them into his pocket, and grabbed his robe in passing. Arthur's head was still in the fire.

"Coming!" Snape said.

Arthur nodded and disappeared. Snape snatched the box of floo powder from the mantle, opened it, and took a hasty handful of the dust. Flinging it into the fireplace, he stepped in and nearly shouted "The Burrow!"

He heard the boy's terrified cries as soon as he emerged from the flames in the Weasleys' living room. A pajama-clad Hermione Granger was waiting, wringing her hands and glancing at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot.

"Professor, he's…"

"I hear him," Snape said, brushing past her and racing to the stairs. He took them two at a time, the boy's cries leading him to a room on the fourth floor, where he found Arthur trying to restrain the boy's thrashing, Molly standing helplessly by with a bottle of… the wrong thing, obviously, whatever it was in her hands. Ron, wide-eyed on the boy's other side, patted his shoulder urging, "Come on, mate, snap out of it! It's a dream – just a dream!" while his sister clung to his arm, her eyes tear-filled.

Snape forced himself to breathe calmly. There was enough – too much – negative energy in the room as it was. That would not help. He murmured, "Excuse me," squeezing past Molly to touch Arthur on the shoulder. The man looked up in relief.

"It's just a nightmare, Sev, but we can't…"

"I know," he said. He looked around. "Please leave. All of you. Except you, Weasley," he directed at the boy's best friend. His sister opened her mouth to protest, but Molly drew her away, whispering into her ear. Arthur pulled Miss Granger out, Potter's best mate meeting her eyes and nodding, and shut the door, leaving him with Potter and the Weasley boy, who was pale but determined.

"He'll need you to help. I won't be able to get this down him alone," Snape said. Potter's thrashing foot connected with his knee and he winced. "Potter…" he growled, and touched the boy's shoulder. The boy's wailing peaked, and Snape sat on the bed and shook the boy by the shoulders.

"Potter, that's enough! Stop this! You're safe. You're alive. You're okay… you're safe," he repeated.

The boy continued to wail, this time moaning "No! No! You're hurting him!" Snape motioned the Weasley boy to sit on the bed at the boy's other side. The boy placed his hands over Snape's on Potter's shoulders. Snape nodded and kept muttering, "It's okay, Potter, you're safe. It's all right," allowing Weasley's hands to substitute for his as he pulled out the two vials. "It's all right, Potter... Everyone's okay... It's all right…"

He hesitated then took the darker potion. He rolled the boy onto his back, but, worried that the boy would choke on the potion if he just poured it down his throat, pulled him up to a sitting position. The boy grabbed at him convulsively, his mate's eyes wide as he supported the boy's back. Snape could not manage both the boy and the bottle. He motioned with his chin, and Weasley understood, taking the vial from his hands.

"Open up, Potter, open up," he murmured, massaging the boy's jaw, working it open. "Come on – Draught of Dreamless Sleep for you. Come on, son, it's my potion… Come on…" The boy finally calmed enough. Snape supported him, holding him up against him, as Weasley, with remarkably steady hands, poured the dose into the boy's mouth. Snape stroked his fingers down the boy's throat to encourage him to swallow. "Come on, boy, swallow. That's it…"

He continued to hold the boy, stroking his throat gently, as he swallowed and the potion took effect. Weasley was finally able to pull Potter's limp hand from Snape's arm, and sat holding it, watching the boy, his face pale, tears streaking down his cheek. It was only then that Snape realized his own eyes were burning and wet. He bowed his head over the boy's as he held him, not yet willing to move him, lest he wake.

The three of them were motionless for several minutes. Weasley's sniff finally broke the silence. Snape sighed. "Let's lay him down," he said.

Weasley nodded, "Yeah," and got gingerly up off the bed. Snape eased the boy down onto his pillows. As he had before, he whimpered, his hand going out to grab at any part of Snape he could reach. Snape let him hold one hand while he smoothed the boy's hair from his eyes with the other. Weasley pulled blankets up over the boy, patted his shoulder and rasped a sigh.

Snape looked up at him, sure his own face was nearly as devastated as Weasley's. He waved a chair over for the boy on one side of the bed, and another for himself on the other. He left his hand in Potter's; Weasley kept patted his friend from time to time as he slept. They did not talk.

Snape woke a while later. Arthur had come into the room and was trying to get his son to move to the other bed.

"'s all right, Dad. 'm fine here," the boy insisted quietly. "I'll stay by Harry. He needs me."

Arthur saw Snape watching. He smiled at Snape sadly then tossed a blanket over his son, who murmured, "Thanks, Dad." Arthur dropped another blanket around Snape's shoulders, patted him on the back, and left the room.

"He's… looking better," Weasley said.

Snape glanced at Potter then turned back to his friend. "You should get some sleep," he said quietly.

"So should you," he challenged.

_Boys._

Neither of them moved.

A tear slid down Weasley's face as he contemplated his friend. Snape's chest squeezed painfully. He wondered what the boy was thinking about, and the possibilities made his chest hurt worse. He suddenly recalled the Forest of Dean… Weasley racing to dive into the frozen pool to rescue his friend… He found himself watching the ginger-haired boy, thinking about what he, too, had been through, on the way to Voldemort's downfall… on the way to Potter's fall in the forest… He shook his head, fighting off the pain in his chest, and suddenly realized Weasley was eyeing him in puzzlement.

"What?" the boy asked.

He looked back at him for a long time, overwhelmed by it all once again. Finally he whispered, "Thank you."

The boy looked back at Potter and sniffled. "I'd do anything…" he said hoarsely.

"I know."

_So would I, _a small voice admitted_._

Someone touched his shoulder. "Professor?"

He opened his eyes to find Hermione Granger standing over him. He struggled to sit up, stiff from yet another night in a chair at Potter's bedside. He stifled a groan, not wanting to wake the still-sleeping boy.

"Mrs. Weasley said you should come down for breakfast," the girl whispered. "I'll stay," she said, anticipating his protest.

He turned to look at the boy. He was sleeping peacefully, not yet awake despite the light coming through the window. Snape wondered if he had given him too much of the potion, but the boy looked to be simply asleep, not dosed into oblivion. He turned back to the girl and nodded, went to get up, and got his feet tangled in the blanket over him, remembering _Arthur._ He untangled himself without tipping over, thank Merlin, and folded the blanket over the back of the chair. The boy's best friend must have gone down to breakfast as well. The girl slipped into the chair, watching the boy attentively enough to wake him with her gaze. Snape touched her shoulder and she looked up. He gestured with his head.

"Oh… sorry," she whispered.

He shook his head – _no need for apology_. She sat back in the chair, watching the boy less intently.

He made his way down to the kitchen, following the murmur of voices. Arthur, Ron, Ginny and Charlie sat at the table. Molly was at the stove frying bacon and scrambling eggs. Charlie motioned to the chair next to him as Snape walked into the room. He hesitated a moment, then pulled out the chair and sat down, across from Ron.

"Ron said Harry slept the rest of the night," Charlie said. "Do you have any idea why he's having nightmares, Sev?"

Snape looked across at the younger Weasley boy then at Arthur, who cleared his throat and answered. "Well, I imagine it's just all he's been through in the last year. We're all having nightmares, Charlie."

"Yeah, but…"

"He always was a sensitive boy," Molly said, tipping eggs, sausage and toast onto Snape's plate. Snape concurred silently.

Charlie looked rebellious at that, and Snape wondered if the practical dragon wrangler had ever had nightmares himself. Then he actually _looked_ at the man and realized he had tears in his eyes. He didn't know what to say, was not about to violate the boy's confidences to explain what he knew. He looked up at Arthur again. He looked as conflicted as Snape felt. The youngest Weasley boy just kept his head down.

He cleared his throat. "I've been trying to keep him busy, making potions, taking him to Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley… He just needs time. He's been through a lot," he said quietly. He looked up at Ron, who was watching him cautiously. "He needs his friends."

"George needs me, too," the boy said quietly.

He nodded. "… Of course."

"Let him stay here, then."

Snape hesitated. "Of course. He's perfectly free to do as he chooses."

"I got the impression you were keeping him at Hogwarts."

Snape frowned. "Keeping him…? What gave you that idea?"

"Well, he talks about all the work you have him doing."

Snape shook his head, confused. _What work? _"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't…"

"Ron," Arthur said, "that's not what Harry means. He's _happy_ working with Severus…"

The boy snorted. Snape suddenly lost his appetite, and put down his fork. After a few moments, during which he stopped listening to the flow of conversation around him, he pushed his chair away from the table. He felt a bit nauseous, and his chest was burning slightly.

"I should be getting back," he murmured, getting to his feet.

Arthur threw a look at Ron that Snape missed. Nor did he see the boy flush under his father's admonishing gaze. Arthur rose as well.

"A word with you first, Sev?"

Snape hesitated but nodded.

Arthur led him out to the garden, turning to lean against the same spot on the wall they had occupied previously, saying nothing, just waiting. Snape stood uncomfortably in front of the older man for a moment, staring down at a spot somewhere around his collar, then hung his head, looking at the ground – or _not_ looking, actually, and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.

He inhaled shakily. "I don't know what I'm doing, Arthur," he murmured.

"Yes, you do."

Snape exhaled. He didn't know what Arthur meant by that. He turned away from the man to face the fields surrounding the Burrow, folding his arms across his chest, trying to contain the hurt. _Where had that come from?_ His stomach was burning again. He refused to let it spasm. He was _not_ going to be sick. He swallowed, shut his eyes and shook his head. _What am I doing?_

"I don't think I know who I am anymore." He fought against it, tried to breathe through it.

_What am I doing?_

Arthur continued his silence.

"Every time I think I figure something out…" He stopped, shook his head and closed his eyes. "The boy has nightmares almost every night."

_Why am I telling him this?_

"He's… he's been through so much… he's still going through it. I just… I don't know how to help him. I wish…" His chest heaved with the effort to stifle the emotions that kept trying to take him over, disrupt his calm.

_What did he wish? Other than that none of this had happened… that he'd died before he could ever have told Voldemort about the damned prophecy… that there'd been some other way for this to end than what the boy had gone through – him and his friends, Arthur and Molly and their sons, Lupin and Tonks?_

"I'm sorry…" he found himself saying. "I'm so sorry…" He inhaled a shaky breath. He would not let himself lose control… would not show weakness in front of the man. Arthur was dealing with his own loss… he had no right… He grabbed what control he could, and hung on. "I need to get back…"

"Severus…"

He shook his head, raised a hand to fend off whatever the man was going to say, and turned blindly back to the Burrow. Arthur let him go. He found his way to the living room, grateful no one else had left the kitchen. He pulled a handful of floo powder from the container on the mantle, threw it into the fire, and stepped in, barely managing to croak out "Gryffindor Tower" clearly enough to take him home.

He took just the one step needed to take him out of the fireplace. _What am I doing? _He stood shaking his head… shaking all over… swallowing convulsively, fighting back tears. _What am I doing?_

He looked around his study, not seeing anything really, not sure what he was looking for. His eyes lit on the two identical advanced potions books on his table… the boy's Order of Merlin… the door to the boy's room… the boy's broom leaning between the bookcase and the door…

_What am I doing?_

He stumbled to the sofa and fell onto it, holding his head in his hands, shaking it… shaking... He couldn't think. His stomach was burning. His chest hurt so bad… The few bites of breakfast he had eaten forced their way up his gullet and he tried unsuccessfully to swallow, retching repeatedly, weakly, not even caring. Sweaty and trembling, he drew a hand across his mouth, disgusted with himself on more levels than he cared to count. Drawing his wand with a shaky hand, he banished the mess and cleaned his wrinkled robes, laid down on the sofa, and gave into his confusion, his pain, and his grief.

He woke some hours later, chilled from sleeping without a blanket. He worked his way to a sitting position, shivering, knowing he would warm up once he got up and moved around. A glance out the window showed the day to be dreary, rainy and likely cold, compared to the milder days they had enjoyed almost non-stop since June began. _Perfect,_ he thought. The weather matched his mood. He thought that inevitable.

He wiped at his eyes, sore and still burning from the tears he had fought hours before. His fingertips came away wet. He sighed. _Get over it,_ he tried to order himself, but his self did not seem interested in listening, heartache and uncertainty following him into his room as he bathed and changed into fresh clothes, moving automatically, nearly robotically. He forbore to put on robes… did not want to allow himself to mope about in pajamas… settled for black pants, one of his high-necked white shirts, and a sweater against the cold. The sweater had been a gift from McGonagall once he agreed to be Head of House. It was Gryffindor red, the House crest just over his heart. He tried to feel worthy of it.

He wondered why he had cried, why he kept finding tears so close to the surface these days, since he came back from the Shack. Maybe it was having been so close to death. Maybe it was that Voldemort was, at last, dead, and all the years of Occluding against his pain were finally over. Maybe a lifetime of unshed tears was finally having its due. Maybe he was out of practice.

Or maybe it was Potter… and Hagrid's memories of the boy dying… and Potter's memories of being dead… and the fifty four graves by the Black Lake… and Fred… Lupin…

_Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living; and above all, those who live without love._

Was that it – love? He shook his head, denying it, even as his heart throbbed and tears threatened to overwhelm him again. He grit his teeth against it, pulled on socks and ankle boots, stuffed his wand up his sleeve, and left his bedroom, wondering if he could find Minerva and get her to give him some task to take his mind off… whatever. He wondered if he should pack the boy's things, send them off to the Burrow… He wondered if the boy had enough Draught of Dreamless Sleep to hold him through the summer. _No matter… he could always make more, send it to the boy…_

Desperate to escape his thoughts, he left his rooms, echoing of the boy's essence after a mere two weeks. _Gods, he felt lonely._ He walked the halls to the stairs leading to McGonagall's office, said "Scarlet Tartan" at the gargoyle, and stepped onto the spiral stair. When he got to the top, he heard murmuring from behind her door, one voice clearly Dumbledore's. He hesitated, sighed, shook his head, and turned away down the stair. The halls were empty, his steps echoing hollowly as he stepped lightly through them. At least that was better – he moved with more of his typical grace, despite the ache in his bones and sinews, than he had since leaving the infirmary. He paused at the Great Hall, but as it, too, was empty, he passed it by as well.

The rain outside the castle might have deterred him, but he cast a protective shield around himself, keeping the worst of it off him – so much easier fending off rain than spells or living things… or his feelings. He walked to the graveyard, but Lupin was not at home – not answering anyway, he thought with amusement. He thought about leaving a message; then, shaking his head at his whimsy and his… need... for the werewolf, turned and walked off, hands in his pockets to keep them warm.

Hagrid's cabin was still lifeless, no lights in the window or smoke rising from the chimney. Even the Thestrals were hiding from the rain. He caught a movement at the edge of the forest, but the color was not Firenze's and he had no interest, at the moment, in talking with any other of the roan centaur's kind. Lights in the castle indicated Trelawney was in the North Tower, as usual, and Minerva's lights were also visible through the rain. There was no one, really, that he cared to talk with at the castle right now, other than Minerva.

He fleetingly thought of the Burrow's warm kitchen and the Weasley family. The thought made him feel his loneliness more acutely, but he shook his head. He should let Potter have his visit unencumbered. He wondered if perhaps he should keep Spinner's End, just to have somewhere else to go, but the very thought made him nauseous. He'd have to find another summer hide-away, he decided. Somewhere… less dark… less filled with betrayal and loss and unmet need… somewhere new and as empty as he felt; maybe he could figure out how to fill it… maybe that would help him figure out who he was now.

He wondered whether he could find a copy of the Daily Prophet; see if there were any advertisements for homes for sale, some small, secluded place. He thought of going back to the Great Hall to see if, by any chance, someone might have left one there in the last couple days, but rejected that as highly unlikely – the house elves were attentive even during the summer. Lacking anything better to do, he went back to wander about in the castle.

He found himself on the seventh floor at some point, walking past a door that hadn't been there moments before. He stopped and considered it, scowling. Now the bloody _castle_ was dosing him, he thought. Shaking his head in exasperation, he opened the door… to find himself in his study again, equipped much as it had been when he and Potter had discussed the Elder Wand… or what Snape had _thought_ was the Elder Wand. Except this version of his study had doors off to his lab and to Potter's room, complete with the double copies of the potions book he'd brought from the classroom, Potter's Order of Merlin, and the boy's broom. He shook his head again.

However, taking the hint, he walked to the fireplace, intending to flick it lit. The Room anticipated and lit the fire for him. He picked up one of the three potions books Potter had brought to the infirmary, and sat on the sofa. _Might as well read as anything else. _The book fell open to _Ashwagandha Root Tea Decoction._

_Damned Room. He hated when it did that… giving him what it thought he needed._

He read the instructions.

_… libido (what's that?)_

_Potter… _He shook his head, laughing to himself. A cup of tea appeared at his elbow.

_Oh, no! He was not going to allow himself to be dosed to sleep by the damned Room! _He Banishedthe tea with a wave of his wand.

He wandered over to the table. His notes from earlier sat there, exactly as he had written them. Perhaps he should…

Just as he was contemplating taking up his notes again, the fire flashed greenly.

"Severus, are you home?" came Arthur Weasley's voice.

He spun to the fireplace, but before he could blurt out a panicked query, Arthur continued. "Mind a visit?" Only his head was visible in the flames.

He hesitated then shrugged. But it was the youngest Weasley boy who stepped out of the fire, not Arthur.

"Weasley? What are you doing here?" The boy hung his head and shuffled uncomfortably on the hearth. "Well – what is it?" he asked.

That came out more harshly than he had intended. _Clear your mind. Control your emotion_. _Where was his self control these days? _he wondered, lifting a lip in disgust. The boy winced and swallowed.

"Sit down, Mr. Weasley," he said in a somewhat less severe tone. He hesitated, wondering how to help the boy relax. Two bottles of butterbeer appeared on a side table. _Better than tea for the boy,_ he acknowledged. He waved at the bottles.

"Oh – th… thanks, Professor," the boy said, taking one and twisting it open. He sat on the sofa, just dangling the bottle in his hands.

"Drink, Weasley, before you spill that all over my rug," Snape said. He saw no reason to clarify that they were sitting in the Room of Requirement rather than his study.

The boy nodded, took a swig from the bottle and swallowed. Snape crossed to a chair, sat, and tented his fingers at his lips in his usual possessed pose wondering what in Merlin's name Weasley was doing here. He waited the boy out.

"Dad…" The boy sighed. "Dad told me I had to come talk with you."

Snape was confused. After a moment, he asked, "Why?"

"He… he told me I was bang out of order this morning," he said, looking up and reddening slightly. "I reckon he was right."

Snape said nothing, just looked at him.

"Harry…"

Snape closed his eyes at the mention of the boy.

"Harry talked about you all last night… how you took care of him… He told Hermione and me about what happened in the Shrieking Shack…"

He looked up then. Snape was surprised that Potter remembered anything about that, given he'd been so distraught, so out of himself… _No wonder he'd had nightmares._

Weasley took another sip of butterbeer looking at Snape over the bottle. The drink seemed to fortify him. "He told us about… about what he did with… the wand, too. And that you helped him…"

Snape just eyed the boy, wondering if Potter had told him the grave was doubly warded, or about the access spell the boy had done, or about the one Snape had invoked without asking.

The Weasley boy looked around Snape's quarters, flicking his eyes to the lab and the bookcase where Potter's three books still sat, as if taking inventory of things he expected to see. He turned around to look over the back of the sofa, and his eyes lit on the two books on the table, flicked to Potter's broom leaning against the bookcase by the door… He turned in the other direction and Snape saw his eyes stop on Potter's Order of Merlin. The boy stood and wandered over to it, read the citation and shook his head.

"Barking idiots," he muttered. Snape concurred silently. The boy touched some parchment on Snape's desk. Snape followed his progress with his eyes as the boy glanced into his bedroom, then wandered to the door of the fourth room. The boy leaned against the doorjamb, looking into Potter's room, drinking from his bottle of butterbeer. Finally he turned to look at Snape, who had not changed position.

"Your butterbeer's getting warm, Professor," he said, lifting his chin in the direction of the second bottle.

Snape picked up the bottle, opened it, and lifted it in the boy's direction. "To absent friends," he said quietly.

Weasley swallowed, his eyes suddenly bright, nodded, and raised his bottle in Snape's direction. They both drank. Still leaning against Potter's door, Weasley said, "I owe you an apology, Professor."

"Severus."

"Pardon?"

"It's 'Severus'. I'm no longer your professor. And I understand you do not intend to return this year."

"Yeah, well… school was never my thing."

"Indeed."

Weasley snorted. "And…" he inhaled deeply, "… George needs me."

"Indeed," Snape said softly, nodding once.

He got up and walked over to the boy, who watched him warily. But he merely stopped in front of the boy, regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, looking him in the eyes, said, "Just don't forget to live for _yourself_, too, Mr. Weasley."

The boy met his gaze for several seconds before he nodded. "Thanks, Prof… Se… Severus," he said. He shook his head. "Weird."

"What?"

"It's just… hard to wrap my mind around you being a good bloke is all," the boy acknowledged with a small laugh.

"Yes… well – it's hard for me, too, sometimes," Snape was surprised to find himself saying.

"Yeah…" the boy said softly. "I bet." He hesitated.

"What is it?"

"You… you called him 'son'."

_What? _"Who?"

"Harry. Last night. When you were giving him the potion."

Snape frowned and shook his head. _What? _"I'm sorry, I don't…"

"Yeah, well…" The boy shrugged.

Snape soothed away his confusion and the lump in his throat by tossing off the rest of his butterbeer. His internal clock told him it was time the boy headed home for dinner.

"You'd best get back," he said.

"You're coming with, aren't you?" Weasley insisted. "Mum'll skin me alive if you don't come back with me."

Snape hesitated, but nodded. "Let's not risk your skin, then. Word is your mother has a wicked wand arm."

The boy's mouth quirked upward in an attempt at a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Yeah – she does."

Snape turned back to the fireplace, but the boy put out a hand and said, "Um… Prof… Severus?"

He turned back. "Something else, Mr. Weasley?"

"Ron. Um… Harry doesn't… he doesn't know that I…"

Snape nodded. "Not to worry... Ron."

Ron shook his head again, snorting. "You don't know how weird that sounds, coming from you."

_Indeed._

* * *

_That was Chapter 21 of 30. Carry on._


	23. Mithraic Rituals

**Disclaimer: **HP and his world belong to J.K. Rowling, who has stolen our hearts. Mithraic rituals belong to Ancient Rome. The specific rituals and Latin spells herein, and the plot, are my own... So is Umberto Causidicus, as a matter of fact, since I forgot to mention that previously.

Your thoughts? Or must I use Legilimency?

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

MITHRAIC RITUALS

They arrived at the Burrow just as Molly was setting the table. Footsteps clattered and thumped down the stairs, heralding the arrival of Ginny, Granger, George, Charlie and Potter, in that order.

"Hi, Professor!" Potter said in greeting, a little startled at Snape's casual attire.

"Potter," he nodded. The boy looked happy and relaxed, as did Granger and the boy's girlfriend – assuming he and the Weasley girl had gotten that far. Even George looked more animated and involved, he noted. He sighed and nodded to himself. Clearly the boy belonged here. The Weasleys cared for him, were good for him… and he was just as clearly good for them. He needed his friends… he needed family. His mind began sorting through how to get the boy's things to him for the duration of the summer.

Conversation flowed in three-part harmony around the table during dinner. Snape, Arthur, Bill and Percy talked about the Ministry; the four teens laughingly argued about Quidditch; Molly, Fleur and George listened avidly to some tale of Charlie's about dragon chasing. The conversations ebbed and flowed and intertwined around each other in a soothing if noisy rhythm, punctuated by requests that a dish be passed, or exclamations over Molly's excellent cooking.

Afterward, Bill and Fleur, Percy, Charlie and George made excuses to head back to London, though Percy and Bill confided to Snape that they intended to get George drunk. Snape was unsure as to the advisability of that, but Bill clapped him on the shoulder. "Not _too _drunk… and Charlie'll spend the night with him until Ron gets back in the morning," by which Snape understood that the boy's brothers were keeping watch on the solitary twin. His heart clenched.

He nodded. "If there is anything I can do…"

"Just look after Harry – that's the best thing you can do for any of us," Bill said. He wondered if his confusion and uncertainty showed on his face, but Bill had turned away.

The teens went out for a turn around the Burrow. Snape and Arthur followed. Potter's black head leaned against Miss Weasley's red head on his shoulder as they walked off with their arms around each other, Ron and Miss Granger hand in hand at their side. Watching them, Snape shook his head in a strange realization.

"They look like James and Lily," he observed aloud.

"Do they?" Arthur turned to watch. "Molly and I never knew them that well, you know. We weren't in the Order at the time – just Molly's brothers. We only knew them peripherally, and even then, other than a time or two, it was too dangerous for the Order to gather. Molly had just had the twins… we were busy with Bill and Charlie… The Potters were ten years younger, just married… They had their own circle of friends. Of course, only Dumbledore knew you were in the Order at the time – it wasn't safe for the rest of the Order to know, and definitely not those of us not in the Order. Good thing, given Pettigrew – you'd have been dead," he said, glancing at Snape beside him.

Snape stood frozen in memory.

_'My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you?' Dumbledore had said, then sighed… 'If you insist…'_

_Merlin and Hecate, he'd been lonely…_

His chest hurt and he raised a hand to rub it, but lowered it when he realized Arthur's eyes were on him.

The two of them watched as the teens disappeared around the corner of the house. "Let's have some tea," Arthur said, reaching his arm to take him by the elbow and turn him back to the Burrow.

They joined Molly in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes. Arthur put on water for tea. Snape watched them work around each other, their love for each other evident in small things – the way they moved, as if choreographed, the small touches they exchanged, the teasing banter.

The four teens came back from their stroll. Molly shooed them up the stairs then joined him and Arthur in the living room, in front of the tray of tea, honey and milk. Molly sat on the cushioned arm of her husband's chair and leaned into him as he gestured to Snape to help himself. Snape leaned forward from his spot on the sofa to pour tea for all three of them, raising his eyebrows to enquire about milk and honey.

"How are you, Sev?" Molly asked, her eyes warm with concern as she examined him.

_Good question,_ he thought.

"I'm… fine," he began, but Arthur's open skepticism made him halt in confusion. He started again, but Arthur cut him off.

"We know better than that, Sev. How are you _really_?"

He stared at them, and the look of compassion on Arthur's face made his chest hurt and his eyes burn. "What do you want me to say?" he asked after a moment. "My wounds are healing – sore, but healing… My wrist hurts…" He inhaled shakily. "My head hurts…" He blew out a breath. "My chest hurts… My heart hurts…"

Molly made a small sound, but he barely heard it.

"I can't keep a meal down…" He stopped, closed his eyes, and raised a hand apologetically. "I'm sorry… I don't… I don't mean to…"

_What's wrong with you? __Calm__ yourself! _he ordered.

"Severus…" Molly said.

He opened his eyes but stared at the floor. "He should stay here – Potter." He got to his feet, began to pace. "He… he needs you – all of you."

"He _needs __you_, Severus," Molly said emphatically.

He shrugged off her insistence. "He's happier here. There's no one for him at the castle."

"There's _you_," she said.

"You don't know what it's like there," he said, turning to face them. "It's empty. No one is around. It's… it's lonely…"

Neither Weasley said anything for a moment then Arthur said softly, "I imagine it is. But… the boy _needs _you, Sev." He sighed, put both hands on his knees and pushed to stand up. "The boy needs a father…"

Snape strangled a protest.

"… and he seems to have chosen you."

He shook his head in denial. "I'm not exactly an appropriate choice. Besides, he's… he's nearly a man…"

"Even young men need fathers, trust me." Arthur laughed quietly. "And Harry is still very much a boy, despite all he's been through. You saw how he quieted for you when the rest of us…"

He waved that away. "Dreamless Sleep Draught…"

"What do you think Igave him – pumpkin juice?" Molly challenged from the chair, her tone flinty and her eyes glinting almost angrily.

_Bellatrix_, he thought. His lips twitched but he knew he was right. "Arthur…"

"Sev – you know we love the boy, but he needs someone who can give him their full attention… and mine's rather divided." Arthur laughed sadly. "I can't be there as much as he needs – and he _needs _a _lot_, Sev… and he seems to need it from you."

"_I_ _can't_," Snape rasped. He threw his head back as if the answer to all this were in the heavens above the Burrow, or upstairs in Ron's bedroom – which it likely was. "I… I _killed_ his _parents_, for God's sake, Arthur! I'm the _last _person the boy…"

Arthur shook his head. "You made _one_ mistake, Sev, just one. A long, long time ago. And you've been protecting the boy your entire life since then. He's the center of your universe, Sev, nothing could be plainer."

Snape froze in position, suddenly remembering that Arthur had seen his memories in the Pensieve. _Which memories? He did not really know… wasn't sure he wanted to know what he'd shared with the boy…_

"It doesn't matter if you think you're up to it or not… or whether you think you're worthy – and that's a load of goat dung anyway, just like Aberforth says. You've been there for him his entire life, and he knows it. He was saying just last night… The boy's _chosen_ you, Severus. He needs you."

"He _needs_ to be _here_. He needs someone who…" He threw up his arms, helpless to find the words. _Someone better… _"Someone else…" _Merlin, what am I doing?_

He ran both shaking hands through his hair. "He should hate me." _I need him to hate me. _It sounded – it felt – hollow, insincere. _When had that changed?_

Molly made a sound of dismay.

"And… and… I need to get back," he said, his stomach churning and his mind tangled up in confused images and thoughts. He couldn't think straight here. He had to get out, get away, go somewhere alone. He put both hands to his head again, then forced himself to drop them. He clenched his teeth and turned in Molly and Arthur's direction, not looking at them. "Thank you for an excellent dinner, Molly. I'll… I should send you the boy's things…"

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Potter stepped into the room and faced the three of them, an indecipherable look on his face. How much he had heard, Snape did not know, but he had evidently heard _something_. Snape barely looked at him, the hard look the boy threw him freezing the blood in his veins.

"_Don't make_ my decisions for me, Professor," the boy said slowly, staring at him, feet away. "I'll make my own choices."

Snape opened his mouth to defend himself against that, but Potter continued.

"I'll decide who and what I need for myself, if you don't mind – all of you," he said, looking at each of them in turn. Then he brushed between the two men and strode to the fireplace, took a handful of green dust from a pot on the mantle, and stepped in. Keeping his eyes on Snape's, not even closing them to avoid ashes likely to be thrown in his face, he threw the floo powder down, and in the flash of green enunciated, very deliberately, "_Gryffindor Tower_".

Mouths agape, the three adults stared at the fireplace where Potter had stood moments before. Arthur recovered first, laughing slightly and shaking his head. "I'd say that settles it, Sev," he said.

"For now," he replied. "Molly." He bowed slightly in her direction. "Arthur." He strode to the fireplace, took a handful of powder, and stepped into the fire, enunciating just as carefully as had the boy, "Gryffindor Tower."

The boy was waiting for him, arms folded across his chest in perfect imitation of Snape at his most imposing. He started before Snape even stepped out of the fireplace.

"Where do you get off, choosing for me? You have no right! It's _my_ life, not yours! Don't tell me where to stay! I know perfectly well what I need and what I don't need! Do you think I wouldn't be at the Weasleys' if I wanted to be there?" He had unfolded his arms and was gesturing wildly.

"Sit down, Mr. Potter."

"NO! I WON'T! You don't get to tell me! You don't get to _decide_ for me! I've HAD it! I'm DONE with it – with being manipulated and led around like I'm… like I'm just a kid, like I'm not capable… like I have no choices! I can't _stand_ it anymore! I _hate _it. I _bleeding hate it._ I _hate_ it when you decide for me! Don't you trust me? Don't you think I can make a good decision? Don't you…"

"Sit _down_, Potter."

"NO! You can't make me!"

Snape almost laughed.

"You are acting like a two year old, Potter! Now _sit down_, before I _make _you sit down! And I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of doing so!" He glared at the boy.

The boy sneered at him. "You don't have the guts, you bloody…!"

Both of them froze. Snape recovered first, passing from pale shock to equally pale rage in instants, taking a step toward the boy.

"DON'T! Don't you _dare _talk to me like that, you _insolent _boy! I may not be your professor until start of term, and I may not be your father, but you _will _speak to me with _respect_!"

Potter unfroze and made a rude gesture at him. In two more steps, Snape was chest to chest with the boy, grabbing his arm and forcing it down. "If you _ever _make that gesture in my presence again, I will lock your fingers together. _Do you understand me_, young man?" he ground out, glaring angrily down into his face.

Potter stared up at him challengingly, but Snape did not back down. Finally the boy dropped his eyes, and Snape released his arm. Years of watching his back served him well – he not only heard the boy's movement as he turned to walk away, but with a wave of his wand, he deflected the bottle of ink the boy threw. It hit the shield he produced and crashed to the floor, splattering a black mess all over the polished wood, as well as his shoes and the bottom of his robe.

He turned back to the boy, his eyes glittering dangerously. "_Well, well_, Mr. Potter," he said in a soft voice that did nothing to hide his anger. "Decided to spend tomorrow _cleaning our quarters_, I see." He took two steps back toward the boy, who backed up, the seven inch difference in their heights suddenly registering, looking frightened. He glared down into the boy's face, mere inches – if that – away.

"_Fine!_"he spat from between clenched teeth. "You will be up at seven. Cleaning supplies will be found in the laboratory. I expect this study to _shine _before lunchtime. Do you understand me? If it does not… there will be… _consequences_." He dragged the last word out slowly, menacingly.

The boy swallowed and nodded.

"Now _go to your room_ before I think of some other suitable punishment!" he snarled.

The boy's eyes gleamed with something like satisfaction. He turned sharply on his heels, stomped to his room, and went to slam his door. Snape waved a hand at the door and the slam turned into the soft _whoof_ of the door hitting a cushioning charm. He heard the boy huff, as he allowed the charm to fade so that the door would close – softly. He shook his head, muttering about _children_, andsiphoned the ink from his clothes with a soft _Tergio_.

Well before seven the next morning, he sat at his desk, reading and making notes. The boy's door opened, and a moment later, Potter stepped from his room. Snape said nothing. Though he kept his head down toward his work, he watched the boy hesitate and flick his eyes from Snape to the table. One place setting sat in front of the boy's usual spot, facing the wall and away from Snape. He saw Potter's throat work as he swallowed. Glancing at Snape again, the boy walked to the table and sat down.

_Breakfast_, Snape thought. The nonverbal spell filled the boy's plate with eggs, sausage, toast and honey, a glass of milk beside the plate. The boy glanced quickly back at Snape then away. He hesitated then ate the breakfast, obedient to the implied command, obviously uncomfortable with his back to Snape, who continued to work without a word, scratching occasionally on parchment.

When the boy finished his breakfast, he sat uncertainly at the table for a few moments. He pushed away from the table, wincing as the chair squeaked against the flagstone floor. He stood and turned toward Snape, swallowed nervously and shifted from one foot to the other.

Snape looked up from his lowered brow, narrowing his black eyes. The boy gulped. Snape cleaned his quill, taking his time with it, and placed it carefully on its stand. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms across his chest and stretched out his long, thin legs. He merely… _looked _… at the boy. Potter's eyes flicked to the ink-black stain on the floor, then to Snape, then away. He swallowed again and walked jerkily toward the lab.

Snape waited until the boy was in the lab, nodded once to himself – _Satisfactory _– and got to his feet. No need to humiliate the boy – nor to sit here in uncomfortable silence while the boy worked. He stretched and walked swiftly to the door, latching it silently behind him, and went down to breakfast with Minerva in the Great Hall.

He waved aside Minerva's question about Potter's whereabouts, implying the boy was sleeping. After breakfast, he busied himself in his classroom sorting through supplementary textbooks and arranging them by year, noting that these had suffered nearly as badly from the students' rebellion or Slughorn's inattention as the room itself. He ignored – and sometimes laughed at – various caricatures students had drawn of professors – including him, but expunged crude words and obscene drawings.

_Children!_

He made mental note of the random commentary about a particular potion's difficulty or a slight change of procedure or ingredient that either Slughorn had suggested or a student had experimented with on their own. Occasionally the students' suggestions were more interesting and had more potential than those Horace suggested, the difference evident in that Horace's suggestions were noted in all copies, while a student's additions showed up in only one, sometimes two.

When his internal clock and hollow stomach suggested _lunch_, he stopped and headed back to his quarters.

Potter sat at the polished table, reading. He was clean, his clothes for once less wrinkled than elephant skin, his hair moderately tamed. He startled when Snape came in and went to stand. Snape waved him back to his seat. He prowled the perimeter, noting _ink stain gone; hearth stones swept; floor obviously mopped and shined; shelves dusted… _The lab was similarly pristine, and its contents straightened, all labels facing outward. His own room sported fresh linens and the window curtains were drawn back to expose the room to air and light. He'd have to change that before dusk, but he appreciated the intent. The room smelled of lavender.

The boy's bed was made so neatly he could have bounced a galleon off the covers. His lips twitched at the folded black pajamas at the foot of the bed. Potter's windows were also thrown open. The room smelled fresh and clean, and of lavender as well. Even the boy's bathroom – which Snape had assiduously avoided as likely to be too disgusting – gleamed and smelled sweet.

_Satisfactory._

He thought a moment, then headed back to the study, where the boy sat anxiously awaiting his verdict. When he nodded, the boy tried to hide a sigh of relief.

"Lunch," he said mildly. He jerked his head toward the door. "Bring your robe – and your cloak, just in case." Without a word or question, the boy obeyed.

He led the boy through the school without another word, the boy two steps behind him, Snape's long legs setting a faster pace than he usually did when with the boy. He slowed only once he reached the doors in the entrance hall.

"What were you reading?" he asked as they headed out of the castle.

"Oh – uh… I was… I was looking up something… but I didn't find it."

Snape glanced at the boy, whose face was slightly red. The boy kept his head down. An amused gleam lit Snape's eyes.

"What were you looking for?"

"Uh… nothing…" the boy said.

Snape smirked, but rapidly hid it from the boy.

"Professor…" the boy said after a moment.

One of Snape's eyebrows twitched in amusement. _Getting your courage back, Potter? _"Yes?"

"The other day… when we were at Dumbledore's tomb and we did the… the…" Potter gestured vaguely.

"The warding?"

"No – the other."

"The access spell."

"Yeah. You… you ended it differently."

"Ah. Is that what you were looking up?"

"Yeah…" the boy said, ducking his head and reaching to scratch his scar.

Snape frowned. "That hurting you?" he asked, but the boy shook his head.

"So… that spell?"

"You won't find it in any of my books, which are, as you can tell, rather heavily slanted toward potions…"

"Where would I find it?"

Snape glanced down at the boy in amusement. "I thought Miss Granger did all your reading for you?"

They arrived at the gates just then, and he uttered the sing-song spell to let them through and closed the ward after them, the boy watching attentively. He skipped to catch up when Snape spun on his heel to stride up the road to Hogsmeade, the stone path crunching under his booted feet.

"So… where would I find it?" the boy asked again.

"When Madam Pince returns, you will find it in the Restricted Section, under _Legal Matters in Wizarding History _by Umberto Causidicus.

The boy looked disappointed.

"Madam Pince tends to return earlier than other professors." The boy apparently was only partially mollified by this information.

"Something I can help you with in the meantime?" he offered.

The boy turned bright red.

"A bit young to be considering a marriage vow, aren't you, Potter?"

"_What?_ Oh… oh… yeah, well…"

Still amused, Snape said, "Wizarding marriages don't traditionally include a bonding spell at this level."

"Why not?"

"A number of reasons. For one thing, it requires utter certainty on the part of both witch and wizard. Imagine a wedding wherein one party is less than certain. The bonding ceremony would reveal that. Few individuals want to risk that – find out that their true love has doubts – or that _they_ do. They would rather go forward in blissful ignorance…" He could not help the sarcasm in his tone.

"Yeah…"

Snape glanced sidewise at the boy. "Second, if the bonding is done mutually, which is rather implied by the wedding ceremony but must be made explicit, it results in the bonded individuals sharing the same life force."

The boy frowned at that. "What do you mean, Professor?"

"Theoretically, a double bonding, which you would expect in a wedding if you were going to do this ritual at all, would result in… a sharing of each person's life energy… so that, in essence, each partner would be able to draw on _all_ the resources of the other – mental, physical, as well as practical in the sense of shared possessions."

"So… so that would mean…" The boy looked shocked, somewhat nauseated at the idea.

"Yes – you can see the dilemma. In a double bonding ceremony, the total life resources – health, intellect, spiritual certainty – _and the lack thereof_ – would be shared. If both individuals are healthy – _as long as_ both are healthy – in mind, body and spirit, each of them would be strengthened. But if one should take hurt in body, mind or spirit, they would draw upon the other's strength – without even conscious awareness, and while the first would be strengthened thereby, the other would be weakened by the same token. At least, that's the theory."

"Why would anyone…?"

"Indeed."

"Do you know anyone who's done that?"

"No."

Potter thought a moment. "And if you did, you couldn't tell me, could you?"

"No."

The boy nodded. "Yeah. That could be dangerous."

"Indeed."

"Professor… if one of them died…"

"Yes. Theoretically."

The boy gulped.

"Second thoughts, Potter?"

"What? Oh… no… no, I…" He was silent a moment. "Professor…"

Snape's lips twitched.

"In an inheritance bond…"

"It's a one-way bond, and as it merely confirms the recipient as the heir of the first, it doesn't carry that risk."

The boy nodded.

"And… the adoption bond?"

"Similarly."

"What if it was done two-way?"

Snape thought about that. "No parent would seek such a thing. The child's life would be shortened… limited by the parent's life-span."

"Yeah, but… the parent might live longer, because the child would be healthy and give them strength."

Snape conceded the point with a nod. "It's possible. Again, it's theoretical, as even adoptions would rarely include the ceremony."

"Why?"

"Unnecessary. Wizarding law suffices for most adoptions and even Muggle law allows for civil adoptions. There's really no reason to go to such lengths. Further, as most adoptions occur in infancy, the question is moot. Not only is the infant not able to consent – legally, intellectually, or spiritually – an infant is not capable of invoking the ritual. The bond would apply only to adoption after the child is of the age of reason at eleven, and the double bond only after the child is of age, an adult."

"So why does it exist, then?"

_Good question._

"I'm not completely sure, to tell the truth. Perhaps to clarify a contested adoption, make it invulnerable to legal challenge… Once done, it cannot be undone. There is some… suggestion… that such bonding would strengthen both parties if it is mutual, but even in the single bond, the recipient of the bond – the child, say – would be strengthened. This is why the spell is set such that it cannot be coerced."

"Yeah – that makes sense."

"Again, however, this is all theoretical."

"Why?"

"I told you, Potter, I don't know of a single instance of the bonding ceremony being used in modern times. In fact, there's only rumor of it _ever_ having been used at all. It's in the realm of theoretical magic, versus practical or applied, an old Mithraic tradition, from ancient Rome."

Their conversation had taken them right to the streets of Hogsmeade.

"Where to – Rosmerta's or Aberforth's?" Snape asked the boy. He was not surprised when the boy chose the latter.

He had one more question before they reached the Hog's Head. "Professor…"

"Mmm…?"

"In what we did at Dumbledore's grave…"

"That was not a bonding spell, Potter – merely an access spell."

The boy hesitated then nodded.

Snape and Potter chose a table in a corner. From long habit, Snape sat with his back to the wall, giving him a view of anyone entering or leaving the inn. Aberforth was busy behind the bar. "So – what'll it be this afternoon?" Snape asked the boy.

"What are you having, Professor?"

"French onion soup."

"I'll have that, too," the boy said. He unfolded his napkin. "Professor…"

"What is it now, Potter?" Snape asked, raising his eyebrows at the boy in amusement.

"About that access spell…"

Snape just waited, watching the boy's face, wondering what it was about the topic that captured his attention so.

"When we finished, you said '_Sic eligere_…'"

"Yes."

The boy toyed with his fork. Snape continued to wait. The boy kept stealing looks at him. Snape saw Aberforth come out from behind the bar. He shook his head slightly, and Aberforth jerked his head in acknowledgement, leaning back against the bar, watching and waiting. Snape shifted his eyes from Aberforth back to the boy, who was still fiddling with his cutlery. He gave the boy his full attention. When next the boy looked up, he held his gaze.

"What is your question, Potter? Speak what is on your mind," he said quietly.

"You added something else."

Snape hesitated then nodded. "_Sic sumo_."

"What's that mean?"

Snape placed his elbows on the table and tented his fingers, considering the boy. He tried for a moment to superimpose James over the boy's face, but couldn't make it fit. Other than the anchoring point of their eyes, so alike in shape and color, he could not make Lily's face fit either. He let Potter's face come to the fore, allowing Lily's and James' to fade.

_Potter, then._

He propped his chin on his thumbs. "It means _I so choose_," he said.

"I thought _Sic eligere _means _I so choose_?"

"It does," he nodded. "It's a matter of connotation. They translate to English the same, but the Latin implies different things."

"Explain." It was a request, not a demand.

"_Sic eligere_ means _I so choose _as in _I elect _or _I opt in – I choose it _versus_ I choose otherwise_ orversus_ I choose not to do so._ Perhaps equivalent to _Okay._"

He stopped a moment to consider.

"_Sic sumo_, on the other hand, means something deeper. _Sum_ means _I am_, or perhaps better, _all that I am_. _Sic sumo_ thus means not only _I choose this_ but _I choose to make this…_ this vow… _a part of who I am, a part of all that I am_. Not only _I choose__ this vow_ but _I am__ this vow_. The vow becomes almost as much a part of you as your DNA."

The boy's intent gaze shifted to amusement for a moment, and Snape could practically hear the boy thinking, _Wizards know about DNA?_ He snorted and shook his head, and the boy grinned before his face turned serious again.

"So…"

Snape drummed lightly on the table, thinking about how to explain this.

"I don't want the…" He gestured.

"I know, Professor."

"Yet – you gave me access."

"Yeah… I just…"

Snape lifted a hand. "I quite understand, Potter – at least I _think_ I do," he corrected. "But I truly _don't want it. _And… I hold myself to _your_ vow – your choice, not to use it… to keep it safe… to let its evil fade from the world." He hesitated, speaking softly. "I hold that vow sacred, and I promise to uphold it – regardless of the cost, regardless of the temptation. I hold that vow sacred with all my being. I bind myself to it wholly, make it a part of who I am."

He allowed that to fade away, for silence to reign between them for a long moment, holding the boy's gaze.

"Do you understand?" he asked quietly.

The boy swallowed, his eyes suddenly bright. "Yeah, Professor. I… I get it."

Snape tilted his head to one side, dark eyes glittering at the boy. _Do you, Potter?_

Aberforth chose that moment to decide they'd had enough talk and it was time to eat. He plunked down a butterbeer for Potter and an elderberry wine for Snape. Snape cocked an eyebrow at the barkeep, who responded by grunting.

"Deep topics, gents, as you were obviously discussing, to judge by your faces, require something more than pumpkin juice. Now – what'll it be?"

"Two French onion soups, I think," Snape said, raising an eyebrow at the boy in inquiry. Potter nodded. Aberforth grunted again and raised his wand. A tray holding three bowls of steaming soup and warm, freshly-baked bread appeared, and he deftly slid it onto the table. Snape eyed the stout man and wondered if he ate with all his customers. Regardless, Aberforth invited himself to join them, sitting himself down next to Potter almost protectively, Snape thought.

"You two figure it out?" he asked, glancing sideways at the boy and turning to eye Snape from under his bushy brows. Snape got the clear impression the man was… angry, perhaps.

"I'm sorry… I don't…" he shook his head. _If I keep doing that, I'm going to have to install a different kind of hinge in my neck_, he thought. Potter concentrated on his soup, though his ears were red.

"T'other night, Potter here wasn't sure he was _welcome_ back at your place," Aberforth said, narrowing his eyes at the man.

Snape turned his eyes to Potter and looked at him blankly.

_When…? Ah. _He raised his head in comprehension and hesitated. "Potter is _welcome_ in my – in _our_ quarters any time he _chooses_…" he said, enunciating each word clearly. He looked at the boy rather than at Aberforth. "… provided he comports himself with _respect_." The boy flushed and dribbled soup off his spoon, reaching hastily for his napkin.

"Sorry, Professor," he said, and Snape knew he was not apologizing for the spill.

"There is nothing to forgive, Potter."

The boy looked uncertain at that, but finally nodded and gulped in relief.

Snape lifted his spoon. "Excellent soup, Aberforth."

The man opened his mouth to say something.

"It's _handled_, Aberforth," Snape said firmly. The man looked from him to the boy and back, and nodded.

* * *

So there! That was Chapter 22 of 30. 8 more to go. Keep going.


	24. Another Birthday

**Disclaimer: **It's all Jo's except for any original character, the plot, the High Latin spells and incantations... Those were jointly created in late-night consultation with Sev and Harry, who get along quite well... I'm happy to say, they were followed by cuddling sessions... But that's another story. Meanwhile... talk to me.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

They spent the rest of the week working together in the lab in their quarters or in the potions classroom. Potter commented once on how much preparation went into teaching. Snape grunted in amusement, his focus on the ingredients he was carefully measuring for the first years' initial forays into potion making.

He gave the boy some NEWT level readings, and evenings, the boy sat at the table scratching notes on parchment or leafing through the journals that arrived nearly daily, while Snape worked at his desk, read on the sofa, or occasionally joined the boy at the table. Each morning, they walked the castle grounds – partly for fresh air, sun, and exercise; partly to collect fresh herbs from where they grew at the edge of the forest; and partly to visit Fred, Lupin, and the other fallen heroes, tipping a drop from their butterbeers or pumpkin juices – Snape never conjured firewhiskey or wine for the boy – onto each grave in tribute.

On their rounds on Friday, someone else was at the graves before them, recognizable even at a distance, the red hair and stout figure of the man a clear identifier. They slowed as they approached, neither of them wanting to intrude. Arthur heaved a soft sigh, patted his son's headstone, and turned, obviously expecting them.

"Arthur," Snape said, walking up to stand next to the man, "we were just coming to say good morning to Fred, here."

"We come every day, Mr. Weasley, don't we, Professor?" the boy said, eager to reassure the man.

Snape looked over at Potter and nodded. "Indeed, we do."

Arthur smiled at them, his watery eyes warming, nodding gratefully. "Thank you. Molly and George will be glad to hear that. Anyway," he said, "Happy Birthday, Harry!"

The boy looked stunned. "It's… it's my birthday? Wow! I lost track…" He turned to Snape. "Did you know…?"

"That today is the thirty-first? Yes."

"Wow," the boy repeated to himself. "I really forgot." He swallowed and stared at nothing, off into the distance. The two older men looked at each other and Snape shook his head ever so slightly, despite the fact that he thought he knew what the boy was thinking.

"Anyway, Harry, Molly and the kids and I wondered if you're free for birthday dinner and cake tonight."

"Oh… ah…" Potter looked undecided. "Could…" He turned to Snape. "Could we do it here, Professor?"

Snape cocked his head. "Why?"

The boy shrugged. Snape looked at Arthur, who was smiling warmly at them. He shook his head, confused.

"Perhaps at Aberforth's…" he began, but Arthur shook his head. "Too public. We still haven't located all the... all Voldemort's gang," he said. "I'd rather not risk Harry's safety, especially at night."

"Of course not," Snape readily agreed. But… _the boy's choice._ "Where were you thinking…?" he asked the boy.

"Oh. I… I thought maybe our quarters…"

"Not enough room in our quarters, I'm afraid, but… " Snape eyed the boy, considering, then turned to Arthur. "I have an idea."

He outlined his plan and Arthur and Potter both nodded.

"That'll work. I'll just let Molly and the kids know."

After Arthur left to head back to the Ministry for the day, Snape and the boy visited briefly with Fred, Lupin and Tonks and headed back to the castle. The boy was uncharacteristically quiet, compared to his usual chatter. As they entered the school, Potter turned automatically toward the Potions classroom, but Snape caught his arm and drew him up the stairs to the seventh floor. After passing before a certain spot on the wall three times, he stepped through a door that hadn't been there a moment before, drawing the boy in after him.

They entered an oddly elongated version of the study in their quarters, each of the three other rooms still evident and in their places. A fifth door atop a short flight of stairs stood near the fireplace. A second fireplace warmed the room at the end near Potter's bedroom. The table had also been elongated, now surrounded by twelve chairs – one for each Weasley, one each for Snape and Potter, and an extra. Snape watched Potter count chairs and turn to look at him enquiringly.

"One for Fred," Snape said quietly. The boy nodded, and his eyes gleamed wetly.

Potter wandered the room. The boy was getting that other-worldly look that Snape was beginning to associate with trouble.

"What is it, Potter?" he asked after a while of watching the boy.

The boy looked at him and away, and ran his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up at odd angles. He stopped his wanderings by Snape's desk, and leaned on the wall next to it, jamming his hip tight against Snape's desk chair as if anchoring himself to it. He looked up at Snape, more _here _than Snape was anticipating, he noted in relief.

"I guess… I just wasn't expecting to be here," he said. "I'm eighteen," he said wonderingly. He held that thought for a long time, thoughts and feelings flitting across his face. Snape wondered what the boy was thinking, but merely watched, letting the boy choose what to share.

"I… I never thought I'd make it to eighteen… to my next birthday. I never thought I'd have another… after the Pensieve… I thought I would never be eighteen. And before that, I still thought… or that Ron and Hermione and me… we'd still be chasing horcruxes – if we were still alive, all three of us…" He drew a shaky breath and shook his head. "I can't believe they went with me… I can't believe I let them."

"It was their choice."

"They could have died."

Snape said nothing. What couldhe say? It was the truth. The idea shook him again. _They were just children. They still are._

He watched Potter struggle with it, what they had risked… what they'd shared, could practically see him adding to his tally – Neville, Luna, Seamus and Dean… the school.

_We're all still here, Potter… and we have to learn to live with it._

The boy looked up at him, devastated, tears finally overwhelming his self-control, and he looked so… young… so helpless, that Snape had crossed the space between them before he knew, and pulled the boy into his arms, while the boy sobbed against him, "I thought I was dead… I th.. I thought… I was… d-d-dead."

"Shh… shh… I know… I know…" And he didknow. He was surprised to be here, too.

The Room offered a calming draught, but Snape thought it better to let the boy cry it out. He was not so hopeful as to think this would be the last emotional outburst the boy would have. What he'd been through had been horrific, terrifying beyond comprehension. Snape's heart pounded just thinking about it.

_The only way out is through,_ he thought… _he hoped_.

After a long while, the boy finally pulled away. "I'm sorry, Professor…" he said, pushing away and wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "You must think…"

"Potter," he said firmly, pushing the boy's chin up so the boy would meet his eyes, "there is _nothing _to be sorry for… _nothing _to be forgiven." He looked into the boy's reddened, uncertain eyes. "And you're _not weak_. I don't know anyone who would have gone through what you did. I don't know anyone who would have dared. I don't know anyone who would have had the courage…"

He held the boy's eyes, letting the truth of that show. After a long moment, something in the boy's face changed, and he said, "I do."

Snape closed his eyes… opened them… his Gryffindor heart pounding in his chest, his own eyes suddenly moist. He swallowed and shook his head. "You know what Aberforth would say…"

Potter gave a watery laugh. "Yeah – '_Bloody heroes, th' both o' you_,' he said in spot-on imitation of the gruff man.

Snape laughed and shook his head.

"Come on, hero – potions are waiting."

They met in the Room of Requirement, their guests entering through the Hog's Head with Aberforth's blessing.

"Hagrid!"

"Yeh didn't think I'd miss yer birthday, did yeh, Harry?" the half-giant said, pulling the boy into – for Hagrid – a gentle hug.

"What about Madame Maxime, then?"

Hagrid's eyes crinkled in a smile. "She's got t' get her school ready, don' she? No – holiday's over. We'll see each other at Christmas."

"Where's Grawp?"

"Back in his cave in th' mountains – likes it there, he does. He'll be helpin' me out this year – w' th' thestrals an' pumpkins an' such."

Hagrid looked at Potter with great affection, then wiped a tear from his eye. "Won' be th' same wi'out you three," he said, waving his hand at Potter, Ron and Granger.

"Oh, Hagrid – Harry and I will be back!" Granger offered eagerly.

"Yeh will? Tha's… tha's brilliant, that is! An' wha' about you, Ron?"

Ron hunched his shoulders, hands in his pockets as usual. Granger placed an arm around his waist and kissed his cheek. Charlie threw his arm across the boy's shoulders from the other side and said, "Ickle Ronniekins is helpin' George out at the store, isn't he, Georgie?" George nodded. Percy came up and stood beside the twin, handing him a mug of butterbeer.

Snape approached the group from where he'd been watching, noting Ron's discomfort. "The Headmistress has made arrangements for extended privileges for students returning for an eighth year," he informed them, watching the younger Weasley.

"What sort of arrangements, Professor?" Granger asked.

"You will be exempt from the residency requirement, for one thing," he said. "And as all of you will have passed your apparition test…" He eyed them enquiringly and all three of them nodded. "… you will have permission to go home on the weekends if you wish – or anywhere else you so desire, as all of you are of age. Further," he went on, "if you so choose, you will be allowed to stay in Hogsmeade rather than at the school…"

"Provided you are at school in time for breakfast and the morning announcements," McGonagall interrupted, coming up to the group.

"How will that work? You're not going to leave the gates open, are you?" Ron asked, glancing worriedly at Potter and Granger.

"Of course not, Mr. Weasley," the Headmistress said. "Eighth year students may enter and leave through the Room of Requirement."

"But…"

"It will be guarded at both ends, Mr. Weasley," Snape assured him.

"Ron," the boy said, and Snape nodded, noting Potter's sudden interest in his interaction with his best friend.

"That means I can come home weekends, Ron!" Granger said, squeezing the boy's arm tightly. Snape wondered what _home_ she meant. _She must mean the Burrow. That's interesting._

"Yeah – me too, Ron," Potter said, obviously looking to alleviate the distressed look on his friend's face.

"Indeed, Mr. Weasley – Ron – in light of…" Snape paused. "…in light of this past year, you would also be welcome to visit…" He hesitated again.

"Where would I stay? Hogwarts doesn't allow visitors." The boy laughed. "It's not like there are guest rooms." He glanced at his girlfriend, and Snape widened his eyes in alarm.

"The girls' dormitory is _still off limits_, Mr. Weasley," he said pointedly. Ron responded by leering at Granger, who swiped at his backside.

"He can stay with us, can't he, Professor?" Potter asked, looking from his friends to Snape.

"Of course."

Ron looked from Snape to Potter and back again, shook his head and snorted. "Weird," he said.

Just then, there was a commotion at the far end of the room, and Bill, Fleur and Arthur came in through the door to the passageway from the Hog's Head, all three of them grinning. "Look who we found!" Bill said, pulling a tall, dark-haired someone in behind him.

"NEVILLE!"

There was a mad rush as Ginny, Granger, Ron and Potter raced for the boy, the rest of the Weasleys and Hagrid not far behind as they hugged, pummeled and pulled at what was clearly no longer a boy.

"Blimey, it's good to see you all!" Neville exclaimed happily, allowing himself to be pulled further into the room.

"Fleur and I found him wandering Diagon Alley when I got off work, and decided a kidnapping was in order," Bill said, smiling. "Dad agreed, so we didn't give him a choice, did we, Neville?"

The… man… laughed.

Molly pulled Arthur's head down and kissed his cheek. "Oh, you!" she said in mock exasperation. "You should have let me know!"

"Why, Mum? It's not as if you're cooking!" Bill said, and evaded her playful swipe at him.

"Come, Bill. Let ze children 'ave some room!" Fleur said, pulling him to the end of the room near the sofa.

"Mr. Longbottom," Snape said as the group finally released the boy. He was surprisingly glad to see the lad. Relieved, maybe.

"Professor," the boy said, holding out his hand, radiating calm.

_Good lad._

Snape took the proffered hand and shook it. "It's _Severus_ tonight, I think, Mr. Longbottom."

"Severus, then," the boy said confidently.

Snape turned to find Granger grinning at him and Potter looking uncomfortable.

Molly was whispering something to Arthur, who patted her hand reassuringly as Bill nodded. "It's okay, Mum. Fleur, Dad and I took care of it."

Aberforth provided a sumptuous feast for the gathering. The room kept adapting to accommodate additions, the final tally including the Weasleys, Neville, McGonagall, Potter, Aberforth, Snape and Hagrid. One extra chair was always present, Snape firmly holding the absent twin in mind throughout the evening, though he was not sure that was necessary, as others obviously were thinking about the boy. While no one said a word about it, George sat on one side of the chair and Arthur on the other.

As dinner drew to a close, Molly suggested, "How about some cake and presents, then, Harry?"

Snape caught the boy's eye, and flicked his gaze to the empty chair. He turned to look at Arthur, whose eyes were suddenly bright with moisture. At Arthur's nod, he held out a hand. "One moment, Molly." She stopped. "A toast, I think, yes, Potter?" The boy gulped and nodded. Tumblers of firewhiskey appeared before each of the guests except Fleur, before whom pumpkin juice appeared. She quickly placed her hands around the glass, exchanging a look with Bill.

_Interesting. _Snape breathed a little easier. _That will help._ He raised his glass to the table as a whole, and then to Fred's chair. "To absent friends," he said quietly, his heart beating painfully.

There was a moment of silence, then Neville and Aberforth spoke at the same time. "To absent friends." The rest of the group murmured in agreement, George's voice breaking as he worked his way around the words last, and all of them took a drink.

"I'd like to make a toast, too," Potter said, getting to his feet. "To you – to all of you. You've all been here for me – from the very start. You've all helped me and protected me… you all fought – _so bravely_…"He shook his head, obviously working for control. "I don't know what I'd have done without you – all of you. I just want you to know… I love you – all of you. So… this is to you." He raised his glass, making eye contact with each one of them. He sought Snape's eyes last, and Snape nodded at him approvingly. He gave a tremulous smile.

"Hear, hear, Harry," George murmured, and raised his glass to Potter, downing the rest of his drink. The rest of those at the table, including Snape, followed suit.

It was Ginny who noticed – with impeccable timing, Snape thought. With a shaky laugh, she looked at her sister-in-law, sitting across from her. "Fleur," she said, "is that _pumpkin juice?" _She eyed Fleur beadily, much like her mother's typical glare. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"

The question fell into the quiet a moment and Fleur blushed. Bill put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek, turning to smile at the rest of the family and friends.

"Blimey!" Hagrid and Ron said simultaneously. Molly shrieked. Hermione squeaked, "Congratulations!" several octaves higher than usual. McGonagall sniffed and said, "Congratulations, Ms. Dela – Mrs. Weasley!" Arthur sat stunned, looking at his oldest son, who said, "You're going to be a granddad, Dad." Arthur's eyes filled with tears. Snape felt his chest constrict painfully but an unfamiliar smile curved his lips.

Everyone had to get up and hug and congratulate the expectant parents then, so it was quite a while before cake and presents again captured their attention, the mood clearly celebratory now.

Molly had foregone her usual thematic flair in favor of a simple, though ample, bit of deliciousness that was chocolate cake layered with strawberries and slathered with buttercream icing. The words _Happy Birthday, Harry_ were followed by _and Neville,_ much to the second boy's surprise. They duly sang two rounds of Happy Birthday, surprised eyes turning to Snape as he quietly added his soft, liquid baritone. He pretended not to notice.

Birthday presents were opened as Molly, Percy and Hermione dished out cake and pumpkin ice cream. There were presents for Neville as well as Potter, which was apparently what Arthur, Fleur and Bill had taken care of. McGonagall's presents – for both boys, somehow – were red sweaters with the Gryffindor crest above the heart, as she had given Snape. Hagrid's gift to Potter was a dragon-hide duffle from France. Hermione and Ron gave the boy exquisite new robes, trimmed in a green that matched his eyes, that had the boy gasping. Molly and Arthur presented him with a new trunk. George's present brought tears to everyone's eyes – a pair of beautiful black leather boots, stuffed with Honeyduke's candy, the card reading "From Fred and George." It took a while for the boy to swallow past the lump in his throat to thank Fred for that… and George.

Neville had presents from both Arthur and Molly and Bill and Fleur, and George and Ron told him to stop by Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes to choose anything he wanted. "That's good forever, mate. That thing you did with that bloody snake gives you a free pass on anything you want," George said. Snape thought, _I should get him something… something for herbology, maybe. _His mind filled with Hagrid's recollection of Neville lopping off Nagini's head and he shivered. Aberforth assured both boys they had lifelong passes to eat free at the Hog's Head.

Miss Weasley's gift made Potter blush and the rest of the group gasp and laugh – beautiful, silky red pajamas. The boy had to tolerate catcalls from Bill, Ron, and even George, while Molly pretended to be scandalized, Arthur looked stunned again, and Granger laughed so hard she had to hold her sides. Snape caught McGonagall's amused twinkle, and Aberforth and Charlie laughed into their cups of butterbeer, Charlie digging at Ab's ribs and gesturing at Potter, which set everyone to laughing again, as the boy did not seem to know where to look and was carefully avoiding looking at his girlfriend… who sat serenely next to him, calmly eating ice cream. That was particularly amusing – and reassuring – to Snape. The boy needed that kind of calm, brave, practical personality at his side.

Potter opened Snape's present last. "You didn't have to get me a present, sir," he said quietly. The table went quiet, and Snape was uncomfortably aware of eyes swinging between him and Potter – Aberforth's, Bill's and McGonagall's in particular.

The boy opened the wrappings slowly. Snape's fingers twitched, and he felt himself tensing a bit. The boy gasped as the wrappings fell away, and turned his eyes to Snape's before he looked back at the two books lying in front of him.

The first was a soft, black, leather-bound journal. Its cover was embossed in one corner with a beautiful depiction of the Tree of Life, and at the bottom with the boy's full name. The boy stroked the cover reverently, and the book fell open as the ward Snape had set on it keyed itself to the boy's touch. Granger gasped and there were other murmurs around the table. McGonagall murmured, "Oh, Severus!" Its pages were as light as silk, nearly translucent. They were watermarked with the Gryffindor crest, each of which was spelled to ward the page at the boy's touch.

The boy shook his head, overwhelmed, and Snape felt his shoulders loosen in relief. "There's another," he murmured to the boy amid the awed comments as the boy passed the journal around for others to see. No one else could open it, but they stroked the fine soft leather admiringly, and exclaimed at the magic that protected its pages. George nodded over it, understanding, Snape thought, the boy's need for a private place to record his thoughts. He made mental note to see that something similar found its way to the young man, and turned his eyes back to the boy.

Potter was looking at the second book with nearly as much astonishment… just looking at it. He turned to look at Snape, and took a shaky breath. Snape shook his head at him, thinking, _Calm yourself, Potter. Clear your mind. Control your emotions. _The boy swallowed and nodded.

"What is it?" Ron asked, leaning over the table to read the cover.

"It's… it's a potions book," Potter said. Ron snorted, but Potter picked up the book with, if anything, greater reverence than he had shown the journal. He stroked its worn cover as well, and opened it to the inside cover as if he'd never seen it before, despite the fact that he'd made more than one potion from its pages – _Ashwagandha Tea… Draught of Dreamless Sleep_. Even the inside cover was filled with Snape's tiny, cramped notations.

The boy caught his breath, one finger tracing the name _Severus Alan Snape_, and underneath it, _Harry James Potter_. He looked at Snape again, his eyes bright. "Thanks, sir," he whispered.

Snape nodded, the tension in his shoulders loosening at last.

* * *

_That was Chapter 23 of 30. Continuing..._


	25. Ut Custodiante

Disclaimer: Jo's universe and characters except for Umberto Causidicus. The plot is entirely my own, and I love it. I hope you are loving it, too. Please let me know.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

_UT CUSTODIANTE_

Poppy arrived back early the next day, despite the late start to her holiday. She eyed both Snape and Potter professionally over breakfast and ordered both of them to the infirmary for check-ups. Potter left as Snape was heading in, giving him a cheerful grin and a wave, announcing he was off to visit Hagrid.

Snape asked about the boy before he was even seated. "He's fine, Severus," Poppy said, patting him, her eyes warming at his concern.

"He's too thin," he complained.

"Yes, well – that's improving, too," she sniffed. "He could use some sun. And what's he doing cooped up here at the castle, anyway? Why isn't he with his friends?" she asked, not directing it at Snape, but just chattering as she set about checking him over.

"You're much too thin, Severus. Why haven't you gained any weight? Haven't you been following the diet I left you?"

He tried to wave her concern away, but she would not let him, her eyes worried. "Severus, you _must _put on weight. Your muscles have atrophied. You _must _get well!"

He pulled back, somewhat alarmed by her intensity. "Poppy, I assure you…" he began.

"You are _not fine_, Severus!" she said, her voice growing slightly more shrill despite her firmness. She continued her scan and her normally professional visage tautened as she checked his stomach and throat. "Why didn't you tell me you were still vomiting?" she demanded angrily.

He shook his head.

"Severus, this is _serious_! You could do serious damage to your…" She stopped, her face suddenly still. She straightened from her examination of his heart and lungs, and put on a professional smile that he viewed with alarm.

"What is it, Poppy?"

"I'll be right back, Severus. Stay here," she said. He frowned. "_Stay here_, Professor, or I shall get the headmistress to _order_ you here."

He hesitated, but nodded reluctantly. Moments later, he heard the whoosh of the floo connection in her quarters. Shaking his head, he wondered what had gotten into the woman. He found himself performing a toe-to-head inventory.

His ankle ached, he acknowledged, though other than that his legs felt fine… perhaps a bit out of condition. His stomach still hurt, burned at times, and he uncomfortably acknowledged that his vomiting, while much reduced, was not gone. Was that from snake venom? Or just… upset. Though… he'd been plenty upset – had had more than enough to upset him – before in his life, without vomiting… except in the days immediately following Voldemort's decision to kill the unborn threat, after Lily and James' deaths, and after he'd killed Dumbledore. His stomach burned anew, thinking about it. He tried to make it stop, but it refused to obey his mental command. Not that he expected it to.

His chest hurt. That was the next thing to capture his attention. But that surely was understandable. His mixed grief and remorse made his heart seize when he thought on it; that was all. His wounds hurt from time to time, his wrist particularly, especially when he wrote for long periods or lifted heavy containers, or spent long hours in the lab. He shrugged that off. _Expected._

A whoosh announced Poppy's return, Healer Smethwyck following her out of her quarters and across the infirmary. He ordered Snape to disrobe, and Poppy drew the curtains around the bed he was sitting on.

Minerva must have known… Poppy must have told her, which was her right, as Snape's performance as potions master might be affected – or at least because she might have to consider a replacement rather sooner than anticipated. At lunch, the Headmistress pulled out a chair, and he followed the implied command to sit next to her. She patted his leg when he sat down, and kept worried eyes on him. He did not want her to speak, begged her not to with a look, and turned his face resolutely toward the rest of the table where Hagrid, Firenze and Trelawney listened to Sprout's summer report. She had returned early to tend her greenhouses. He hoped Minerva would not say anything to the rest of them. He couldn't bear it.

How much time did he have left, he wondered. A year? Five? Ten? Twenty? Smethwyck did not know, could not tell him, only that his heart was weakened, irreparably damaged, that he'd have to be careful… that he could not expect to live a full span of years – might, in fact, have little time… that the pain in his chest should guide his actions… but… how could they guide his feelings? It wasn't as if he could choose not to feel. That ability seemed to have left him. No more hardening his heart, he supposed – another way his heart was weakened.

No matter – his time was limited, shortened by the venom Nagini had pumped into his veins, and that fact sharpened his senses, so that the sunlight streaming through the windows, Sprout's earthy face, Hagrid's deep laugh, Trelawney's determined individuality, the colors of the Hogwarts crest, the texture of the table under his fingers with its dings and carvings from decades of students, the rich, evocative scents of Firenze, Hagrid, Trelawney, Sprout… all seemed more precious to him… something to be cherished.

He wondered if this was how it had been for Potter, walking into the forest alone, to face his own death. But – _that was different_. Snape was not alone – Minerva, at least, knew… and Smethwyck… and Poppy… and he had months at least… years probably… _maybe… _whilePotter had had mere minutes… to cram in all the living he could in those few breaths before Voldemort killed him… before he let himself be slain so that others might live. His heart twinged at that and he turned his mind determinedly away from all of it.

Potter came into the Great Hall then, strode directly to the table, and sat down at the empty space – between Sprout and Hagrid, thank Merlin, rather than next to or across from Snape, those chairs already taken. He didn't think he could have borne it if Potter had sat near him just then – though why that, in particular, would bother him, he did not know.

"Take it with meals," Smethwyck had said about the potion. He had been quite specific. "_Full_ meals, Severus. You must build up your strength. Take it _with _the meal – not before, not after. _At the table_." He'd been _very_ specific. Snape sighed. He slipped the vial from his pocket and flipped it open under the table, lifted it to his lips and swallowed the potion quickly. Minerva noticed. He did not think anyone else had. He then dutifully ate, and sternly ordered his stomach to tolerate the potion and the meal. It did not protest, for which he was grateful.

He let the talk of his colleagues and Potter wash over him, soothed by the familiarity of voices and topics, the rhythm of give and take, punctuated by Potter's younger, eager tenor. Minerva directed questions to him, which he answered without registering the conversation, his mind splitting itself in two, one part doing what was necessary, one part lost in contemplation – of what, he was not even certain. He rather thought he might visit Lupin when the meal was done. Maybe the werewolf would have something useful to offer by way of advice… about how to live, or how to die.

_Ironic_, he thought, _that I should live only to die. Of course… _He looked around the table. _… the same is true for all of us, I guess. We live… we die… The trick is how to live knowing that death will come sooner than expected… Though… not really. He'd expected to be dead several times over, by now._

_Like Potter, _he realized. _Another way we're alike. _He listened down the table to where Potter talked and laughed with Hagrid, Sprout and Firenze… listened to the boy _living_… _I can do that, _he decided. He pulled his mind out of it, back to the table, the Great Hall, his colleagues, Minerva breathing and living next to him… back to Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar, floating in to greet the professors... back to the taste of chicken and potatoes and gravy. But he _would_ visit Lupin.

After lunch, Potter ran to catch up to him, calling, "Professor! Wait up!" He altered his pace to let the boy catch him. Potter walked slowly through the graveyard, visiting with each of the fifty-four fallen, stopping by Dumbledore's tomb. Snape wondered if he was still debating about the wand, whether he regretted his decision. _Did __he__? _He rather thought not_. _ He headed straight for Lupin's marker, wanting to talk without the boy next to him, if only for a few minutes.

"Remus," he greeted the werewolf, "looks like I'll be joining you soon. Sooner than expected, anyway."

He wondered if he could ask the man to wait for him – at that station of Potter's. But no – Lupin had a wife to look after, wherever they were now. He'd have to make that journey alone, then. He pictured the werewolf leaning against his tombstone, arms and legs crossed, his shabby, worn, wrinkled clothing rather endearing now, rather than something to scorn. He shook his head.

"Took me long enough, didn't it, friend?" _Another thing to be sorry for, _he supposed_. _"So… what do I do now, eh? What would _you _do, if you knew your days were numbered?"

Lupin looked at him with that damned knowing, wise smile of his.

Snape waved at him irritatedly. "Something _useful_, Lupin… or don't you have anything else to offer?"

The werewolf smiled still, and mouthed a single word, whispered it in the breeze, perhaps.

_Live._

His heart hurt as if in protest, as if it would be easier to give up, lay down the burden of love and grief… but he looked at Lupin and thought, _He'd be here if he could – for his son… for Potter… for Tonks if she were here – and even if she were not. __He'd__ go on living… had always done so, even when it was breathtakingly hard, breathtakingly lonely. Could he, Snape, ask any less of himself?_

"All right, Lupin," he murmured. He shook his head and snorted. After a long moment, he repeated, "All right."

He was sitting at his desk looking at some papers when Potter came in shortly before dinner. He slid the papers into a folder and closed it.

"Enjoyed your visit with Hagrid?" he asked the boy.

"Yeah. It was great," the boy said, flopping down on the sofa in front of the fire. "I hope it was okay…"

Snape waved a hand. "It's fine, of course, Potter…"

"Harry."

"Your time is your own until start of term."

He watched the boy for a moment, struck, suddenly, by how odd it all was – Potter… here… stretching out comfortably in front of his – of all places, _his_ – fireplace… _How had that happened? _He shook his head. His chest hurt – not badly; just enough to notice. He closed his eyes and tried a calming ritual, but his awareness of Potter, images of the boy sitting in _his _study, eating at his table, sleeping in his bed, in his pajamas, working across his lab table from him, clinging to him for support after a nightmare, kept intruding. He shook his head again, made the images stop with an effort, and opened his eyes to find the boy watching him.

"Professor?"

"I need to make a visit to London," he said.

"What for?"

His hand unconsciously stroked the file of papers. "I need to see my solicitor on business."

"What kind of business?" the boy asked, his eyes bright with curiosity.

"Nothing that need concern you, boy," Snape said, ending in an unintended harsh tone. He shook his head. "Sorry…"

Potter frowned at him. "Are you all right, Professor?"

"Yes… I'm fine."

The boy looked about to say something at that. Snape waved him off. "I wondered if you would like me to pick up your books and supplies for you, as I will be near Diagon Alley."

A frown flitted across the boy's face. He studied Snape for a moment. "Ron, Hermione and I usually meet in Diagon Alley to get our things the week before school begins," he said. "Though…"

Snape saw him consider, obviously drawing the same conclusion Snape had.

"I don't think I want to walk around Diagon Alley when it's crowded, given… given…"

"I quite understand, Potter – and I agree," he said.

"It's _Harry,_ Professor."

Snape grunted. "In any case…"

"Could I go with you?" the boy said suddenly. "We could visit Fred and George…" He cut off, shook his head, and corrected himself. "I mean George and Ron…" His eyes brightened but he mastered himself. "We could visit George and Ron."

"… Certainly – if you can tolerate another day under that cloak of yours," Snape said. "However, my business may take the better part of a day… Why don't you ask if Miss Granger…"

"Hermione's visiting her parents," the boy said, unconcerned. "Maybe I'll ask Neville…"

Snape nodded. "As you wish – as long as you don't wander around alone." He opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a long, narrow box. "My moneybox," he said in response to Potter's curious look. "It's warded. I would like you to have access to it – just in case…" He made a decision and muttered a few words, placing his hand on the box. "Come here, would you?"

The boy stood and walked over to stand next to him. Snape was suddenly aware of the boy – his nearness, the living heat he emanated through the leg of his jeans warming Snape's own chilled leg, the pulse of the boy's heart that he could practically hear, it was so vital. What Smethwyck had told him _was_ sharpening his senses, he decided.

He placed the box on the desk in front of the boy. "Ward it," he said.

The boy looked confused. "Your ward is on it."

"I undid it."

"Why?" the boy asked, perplexed.

"I want you to have access to it, you silly boy. As you undid the access spell I did on the d…" He stopped. The boy was shaking his head.

"I never undid the access spell, Professor."

"I thought…"

The boy shook his head again, blushing slightly. Snape's body did not seem to know how to react to that. On the one hand, his shoulders let go of a tension he had not known they were carrying. On the other hand, his chest seized again, badly enough it was an effort not to clutch at it.

_Potter…?_

His mind did not know what to do with that, either, apparently, as it seemed blank at the moment. Finally he thought, _Well, that simplifies matters,_ and his mind kicked back into motion.

He looked up at the boy. "I'd like to re-do it – if you're willing."

The boy nodded, the look on his face almost relief, and Snape wondered if he, too, wanted this last step to right the imbalance created when Snape had taken that choice from him. He would not make that mistake again, Snape promised himself.

He opened the money box and pulled out two coins. Holding them in the palm of his hand, he pointed his wand at each one in turn, murmuring, "_Reflexio Gemino._" Pointing his wand at one of the coins, he continued, "_Ut custodiante in exitum Abeona, et custodiante in reditum Adeona._" He looked up at Potter. "This is a twinning spell. It connects the two coins…"

He stopped. Potter was nodding.

"What?"

"That's like the charm Hermione used. When we made the DA – Dumbledore's Army. She made coins for us to use, so I could tell everyone when the next meeting would be."

"The Protean charm?"

"Yeah – that's it."

Snape stared at the boy a moment then shook his head, trying not to betray his shock. "You and your friends, Mr. Potter, know far more than you should of magic."

The boy laughed. "Well – Hermione does, anyway."

"Indeed. This spell works slightly differently and is far less complex. The Protean charm transmits changes in the first item to change all others connected to it. This merely connects the two, allowing a signal from one item to a second, if you will. In any case, I'd like you to carry one…" He paused. _How had that happened? _Heshook his head slightly. "… so that I know you are safe while you wander Diagon Alley, and so you know when I am done with my business."

"What was the rest of it?"

Snape hesitated. But… _let there be no secrets…_ "_Ut custodiante in exitum Abeona, et custodiante in reditum Adeona,_" he repeated slowly. The boy nodded. Snape glanced away, sighed, then made himself meet the boy's eyes.

"_May Abeona guard you in your leaving, and Adeona guard you in your return,_" he said. "It's a blessing – a protection spell… on a child… when they leave home. I…" He hesitated. "_We_… say it when the students leave Hogwarts for the holidays, or for the summer."

"You do?" The boy looked awed by that.

Snape cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably. "Every time, Potter."

The boy eyed him thoughtfully.

"Did you think we didn't care, Potter?" he asked.

"No… I just… I didn't know."

"Indeed."

"When you do it on a coin like that…"

"It could be any object… or indeed the child him or herself… but as I would like you to carry one of these…" He stopped, unable to finish for some reason, the depth of his uncertainty, his need to be sure that the boy was, at all times, _safe… safe… safe… _surprising him with its intensity yet again. Just the thought of it… just the thought of needing to keep the boy safe made his stomach tighten and his chest clench in fear.

_How had that happened? _he wondered. Had it always been this way, the boy's entire life? Surely not…

Potter stared at him, motionless, his eyes gleaming. Snape hoped the boy would not… what? He wasn't sure, but he was not sure of his own control, at the moment, either.

The boy swallowed. "Thank you, Professor."

He nodded sharply. His need to keep the boy _safe… safe… safe…_ seemed to echo from some not-so-distant past. _How had that happened?_

The next morning, they stood at the door to their quarters, Potter's hand alone on the door. Snape walked him through the incantation again. "_Manus mea meum est. Manu tua tuum est. Sic eligere_," the boy said.

Snape nodded and watched as Potter reacted to the withdrawal of the access, knew the boy could feel it in his fingers, saw the shock of the loss of Snape's magic on the boy's face. He held himself still.

"Try it."

The door did not open. Snape looked at the boy. _Are you certain?_

When Snape nodded at him, Potter smiled shakily, and put his hand back on the door in relief. Snape placed his hand over the boy's, his thumb to the outside of the smaller hand, their fingers interlaced.

_This is the gesture._

_Gather your intent._

"_Manu mea est tuum_," he said. "_Manu tua meum est_." He looked down to meet the boy's eyes. "_Eligere_." He felt his magic flow through the boy's hand to the door, and the rush of relief at knowing the boy's acceptance of that exchange. His heart twinged, and he did not mind in the least. _This _he was sure of.

"_Sic eligere_," Potter said, a small, relieved smile playing about his lips. They stood a moment looking at each other until Snape finally nodded and removed his hand from the boy's. They turned and headed out of the castle, bound for London.

* * *

_That was Chapter 24 of 30. Continuing..._


	26. Legal Matters in Wizarding History

Disclaimer: All things = Jo Rowling except: Plot, Umberto Causidicus, Mithraic Rituals, High Latin spells.

How is it going for you?

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LEGAL MATTERS IN WIZARDING HISTORY

"There could be a problem."

Snape frowned. "What sort of problem?"

"Don't you read _The Prophet_?"

"Not lately." In fact, he had not looked at a paper since before the battle, and before that, only in mixed hope and fear, needing to know anything he could, as much as he could, about whether the wizard and Muggle worlds were safe.

His solicitor sighed and leaned on his desk twirling his quill, heedless of the ink stains it left on his fingers. "Some people have… insinuated… that any wizard who could bring down You-Know-Who…"

"Voldemort," Snape corrected automatically.

"Yes – him – is himself likely to be a danger, a threat."

Snape frowned. "He's _seventeen_ – just turned eighteen," he corrected himself. "For Merlin's sake, Bartley, how dangerous…"

"But that's just the point, Severus. He took down the most dangerous wizard of all time – at _seventeen._ Don't you see how that could make him look even a greater threat? Imagine what he will be capable of at thirty, or sixty." Bartley shook his head. "I'm not saying I buy any of that tosh, Severus, but people like Rita Skeeter like to stir things up. Wizards have short memories, I'm afraid." He shook his head. "Gratitude and relief are short-lived."

Snape tried to control his anger, keep it from burning his stomach. It wasn't Bartley's fault. The man was right. He thought about Potter wandering Diagon Alley with Neville Longbottom, hopefully under the invisibility cloak, and he itched to get back to him, get him away from there, from potential danger. His hand itched to touch the coin in his pocket to make sure the boy was all right. He fought the urge; he'd left the boy with Neville not an hour past, and Neville with a third coin – just in case.

"I don't see what that…"

"They'll think he _coerced _you, Severus."

"Why in bloody hell…?"

"I didn't say it was logical. I can point out that you named him in your will four years ago, before Voldemort came back, but some people…"

"What about an inheritance bond?"

"What?"

"An inheritance bond. It's a Mithraic…"

"I know what it is, Severus. I _did _study legal theory, you know." Bartley snorted. He sat back in his chair, noticed his ink-stained fingers, and absently picked up his wand to clean them. He saw Snape watching. "Occupational hazard," he said, and substituted wand for quill in his hands, spinning it idly as he considered Snape across his desk.

"You know that's just theory, don't you, Mithraic rituals?"

Snape hesitated, but nodded.

The lawyer considered it. "If it worked, it _would _negate the questions… at least… if we did a little footwork ahead of time… say, submitted an article to the Prophet about, oh…" He waved a hand. "… theoretical issues in wizarding law… slipped it in with some other things…"

Snape waited, watching the man think it through.

"You'd need impeccable witnesses…"

Snape nodded again. "Kingsley…" The solicitor nodded. "And… McGonagall…" A second nod. "Arthur Weasley…" The solicitor gave a third nod.

"The last is probably the most important. He's known to be a friend to the boy, and he's utterly incorruptible." He snorted. "I know – I've tried."

Snape narrowed his eyes at the man, who raised his hands placatingly. "All in the name of business, you understand. Well within the law."

Snape relaxed.

"All right," the solicitor said, suddenly decided. "Let me look it up…"

"I have the reference," Snape said. "I'll forward it to you."

Bartley raised a hand. "No need. That's what assistants are for."

He got to his feet and stretched out a hand. "Good to see you, Severus." He eyed Snape over his desk. "I'm glad you survived it – even in light of what you told me. It's good to have you with us – for however long." His eyes lit in very un-lawyerly warmth as he showed Snape to the door.

As he headed back to Diagon Alley, he pondered how to bring it up to the boy. He made his way through the Leaky Cauldron, raising a hand in acknowledgement of several calls, but did not stop. He tapped the second brick to the left, three bricks above the trash bins, and stepped through the opening.

The street was no more crowded than it had been earlier in the summer, but he felt his stomach and his chest clench as he scanned it for potential threats to the boy. _Stop it,_ he ordered himself. The pain eased somewhat and he sighed. He touched the coin in his pocket. An answering warmth met his fingers seconds later and he felt himself relax. He set off at a determined pace for Flourish and Blott's.

Neville was easily spotted and Snape suddenly realized that the boy was nearly as tall as he, would likely surpass him in height. He strode up to him, deliberately not looking around to spot Potter. "Neville," he said, shaking the younger wizard's hand. He felt a tug on his sleeve and nodded without a word, and without looking in Potter's direction.

"Severus," the lad said.

"Let's get your books, then." The two of them, followed by a silent and invisible Potter, who kept tagging Snape to let him know he was there, entered the bookstore. Snape couldn't help but glance at the headline of The Daily Prophet, but it was merely a report of recent Quidditch scores. As school was nearly a month away, the store was not crowded. Neville quickly found his required advanced herbology books. Snape purchased copies of everything Potter would need for NEWT-level Potions, Transfiguration, Herbology, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He wondered just how much a Defense teacher would have to offer the boy – and who the new professor would be. He'd have to remember to ask Minerva. He was surprised to find he no longer coveted that class, and realized he had missed Potions these last two years.

Their purchases in hand, Snape suggested they eat in a private room at the Leaky Cauldron, but Potter made a sound of protest and Neville caught his eye and said, "I'd feel better about it if we headed back, Severus."

"What is it? What happened?"

"Rita Skeeter – she had a book signing for that damned book of hers about Dumbledore – and read from the chapter about him and Harry…"

Snape felt his jaw tighten in anger.

"…said it was even more suspect, now that Harry's done away with Voldemort. I told her off."

Snape nodded and worked his jaw loose. "Good man." He turned slightly in Potter's direction. "Are you all right?" The boy murmured a shaky assent. "Let's go. Florean Fortescue's." They turned to leave, he and Neville flanking a blank space that was Potter under the invisibility cloak, brushing past two wizards approaching the counter to pay for books they had just picked up off a nearby pile.

They made their way down the crowded street toward the ice cream shop, increasingly hampered by Potter's invisibility. Finally, Snape led them to the side of Madam Malkin's.

"Take it off," he said. "We'll make better time."

The boy's head appeared, followed by the rest of his body. He stowed the cloak under his robe.

"Just keep your head down."

They turned and headed across the street to the ice cream parlor, Potter's hand gripping Snape's wand arm to avoid being separated from him.

He should have sensed it, he thought a long time later. _Why in bloody hell_ hadn't he sensed it? What in the name of Merlin, Hecate and Circe was he _thinking_?

The two wizards they had brushed against in Flourish and Blott's were standing outside the ice cream shop, apparently having finished their purchases quickly and headed in the same direction. One of them gestured to the other, and they stopped. The first moved his hand – not to his pocket as Snape thought at first, but to the inside of his robe. Before Snape could process it, or grab his wand from up his sleeve, hampered as he was by Potter pressing anxiously against his arm, the man had spun toward the street, his wand pointing at the three of them.

_What the…?_

"CRU…"

"_NO!_" Snape threw himself, arms spread in a useless, protective gesture, between the wizard and the two boys.

"_Stupefy!_"

"…CIO!"

The curse hit him squarely in the chest. His chest burned like it would burst, and he felt himself land on something hard, heard someone – Neville, he thought, yell, "_STUPEFY!_" again. But it was too late. The Cruciatus Curse had him in its grip and his body was burning, burning, twisting and contorting in pain like he had never known. There were sounds of shouted curses and people screaming, wordless yells… a thud… another… The last thing he heard was another voice – Potter's? – yelling, "_NO!_ _EXPELLIARMUS!_"

He clawed his way out of the nightmare seeking light, seeking Lupin at his grave, seeking Potter, but he could not find them. Potter was not walking among the grave markers… his was not among the fifty-four stones.

"Severus…"

He tried to answer, but his chest was hurting too much for him to open his mouth. The pain clawed its way up to his neck, down his arms, around his back. He could not reach his wand, could not lift his hand.

"Severus…"

"Professor...? _Professor?_"

The last was whispered in a desperate voice. He wanted to reassure the boy. If only he could wake up. If only he could open his eyes.

"Professor?" the whisper came again, pleadingly.

He shook his head. At least he thought he did.

"Please, Professor. If you only wake up, I promise… _Please_."

But… that made his chest hurt as if he'd been _Crucio'd_. _Wait. That happened – didn't it?_

He tried to wake up. _Potter. He had to get to Potter… had to get him out of here. Had to keep him safe… get him someplace safe… Potter… _He whimpered, tried to form that into words, but nothing seemed to be cooperating. His hand twitched. _There. That was a start. _A smaller, warmer hand gripped his, and he realized he was lying, not on the street, but on a bed.

"Professor?" There were tears in that whisper. _It's all right, _he thought. _It's all right. You'll be all right… you're safe. _He felt himself drifting off, ready to let go, and there was both peace and sadness in that.

_"NO!"_

There was a familiar someone in his mind. _NO! Don't go! Don't leave me! PLEASE… please…_ It was the boy. He could feel him hanging onto him. _Please, Professor… I need you… please…_

_What? What do you need, Potter…?_

A long silence.

Potter's voice drew him back. "_Please, Professor…"_

_Shh… shh… It's all right, Potter… it's all right, _he thought, and he thought he felt an answer, a glimmer of hope.

_It's all right, Potter. I'm here. I'm still here._

He woke to find the boy asleep in the chair next to him again, his dark head laying awkwardly on the arm of the chair, as close to Snape's side as he could get without touching. Snape inhaled a breath of blessed relief – the boy was _safe_. But what of Neville? He was surprised to find the question did not hurt his chest, and he realized some calming and pain-killing draught must be protecting him against it.

He remembered then – the Cruciatus Curse. So he'd been given nerve-replenishing potion. Well – that made sense. He found himself watching the top of Potter's head, eyes following the whorl of hair that led to that untamable cowlick. He reached out a hand and laid it on the boy's head, gently, so as not to wake him, and fell back to sleep.

When the boy stirred later, it woke him, and he tried for a smile as the boy's anxious eyes met his.

"How did I get here?" he asked.

"Neville and I…"

_Thank the gods._

"… got you to Hogsmeade, and Aberforth got Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey."

"When?"

"Just this morning, Professor. How… how are you feeling?"

He realized the boy's eyes were red, that he must have been crying, and he found himself wishing he could make the boy feel better, make it better, whatever it was that hurt him so. He wanted to reach out to him, but contented himself with simply looking at the boy. _Safe._

"I feel…" He took inventory. "… surprisingly well. Could you help me sit up? I seem to be…"

"I don't know, Professor… I'm not sure you're supposed to…"

"Potter," he began, but they were interrupted by Poppy, accompanied by Smethwyck.

"Severus – you're awake! Thank Merlin. Potter, you'll have to leave. Healer Smethwyck wishes to examine Professor Snape."

The boy looked about to protest and turned his eyes to Snape.

"No – I want the boy to stay."

"Severus…"

"Unless you're about to ask me to drop my drawers, Poppy, I see no reason for him to leave. He stays," Snape said firmly. He felt the boy relax without even looking at him.

However, Poppy was firm. She looked from him to Potter, shook her head in disapproval, then softened. "Wait just outside, Potter. This won't take long."

The boy backed up, but Snape reached out and drew him back to squeeze his arm in reassurance. The boy patted his shoulder. Snape's lips twitched in a half smile and he nodded.

The exam took less than five minutes. Smethwyck pronounced him recovering satisfactorily from the typical effects of the Cruciatus Curse, saved from worse by Potter and Neville's swift actions. However, his heart had been strained further, and though he was out of danger now, it demonstrated – to Snape as well as the healers – that their concern about the effects of the snake venom was justified. The brief Crucio should not have resulted in that kind of strain, had his heart been otherwise healthy.

He tried to insist he be allowed to return to his quarters, but Minerva came in, Potter trailing uncertainly behind her, and effectively overruled that by threatening him with a sabbatical if he did not follow the healers' orders. As a result, he was forced to spend the night in the infirmary, though he managed to wrestle from the healers the concession that he would be allowed to take breakfast in the Great Hall, provided he spent a peaceful night.

The three other adults did not even bother to suggest that Potter leave the ward for the night. Instead, they promised to send up a tray with his dinner, and set up the bed next to Snape's for the boy. Snape asked the boy to retrieve his NEWT-level potions book and the text Snape was reviewing for the class, as well as their sleeping draughts, from their quarters. The boy must have flown there and back, he returned so swiftly, but in the meantime, he was able to talk to Minerva.

"They were not known Death Eaters, Sev. There was no evidence of the Mark on them, but Draco identified them as hangers-on in Voldemort's camp."

"Snatchers?"

McGonagall snorted at that. "These gentlemen were far too clean to be part of that lot. No – they looked too wealthy to chase down Hogwarts students for galleons."

"Why did they attack us? And who were they after?"

She was clearly hesitant to tell him.

"Minerva – _who were they after?_"

"Potter. I'm afraid they were after Potter."

His mind stopped. It stopped and this time he couldn't kick it back into gear.

_I'm afraid they were after Potter._

_I'm afraid they were after Potter._

_My god – he's still in danger!_

_Where was he? How long had he been gone? Who was at the school? Who was in the corridors? Was he safe? Where was he?_

He became aware that McGonagall was patting his arm and saying something. He tried to drag his mind back to her, and gradually was able to make out what she was saying.

"… Nick is watching him. He's all right, Severus. He's safe here."

"Minerva, why…"

She shook her head. "There are still Death Eaters and Snatchers on the loose, Severus… and those are only the people we know of. A lot of people hoped to profit from Voldemort's ascension to power… and none of them will take kindly to having their plans thwarted. Potter will be in danger for a while yet – years, maybe. It's good that he'll be here next year… that he's staying with you."

_Fine help he'd been, though, telling the boy to take off the cloak… making him more vulnerable…_

Minerva must have seen it in his eyes, because she patted him and said, "It's not your fault, Severus. We can't keep the boy under lock and key."

Snape had an overwhelming desire to do just that.

Potter returned shortly thereafter, and though they both pretended to read, and even commented to each other about something in their respective potions books, the truth was that they simply watched each other anxiously. Finally, Snape gave up the pretense and suggested a game of wizards' chess before bedtime, which at least allowed them something else to talk about, as well as the opportunity to interact. For some reason, that comforted them both, reassuring at least Snape that the boy was solid, here, _safe, safe, safe_…

Hours later, Snape woke to the boy's cries as he thrashed his way out of yet another damned nightmare. He found it easy to get out of bed, and stepped to the boy's, sat at his side, woke him enough to reassure him and dosed him with another bit of his own draught. He sat and watched until the boy slept, occasionally murmuring, "Safe… you're safe, Potter… it's all right… you're safe…" knowing he was reassuring himself as much as the boy.

He stopped hiding it. _No more secrets… no more lies._ But neither did he tell the boy about it, waiting, he supposed, for the boy to ask. Which he did, two days on.

"Professor…"

"Yes?"

"What's that you're drinking?"

They were sitting at dinner, which they were taking in their quarters. Snape had wanted a quiet evening, and Potter chose to join him rather than go down to the increasingly more social Great Hall. The professors and staff were returning, one by one, from their summer travels earlier than usual, thinking, he knew, that they may have more to do to get ready this year than usual, in light of the battle and its aftermath.

He knew that they wanted to be with each other, too, to assure themselves of their colleagues' well-being. He took comfort in every return – Filius with photos of his grandson, Sinistra with an album of pictures from her journey to Egypt, Hagrid's booming tales of his time with Olympe… He was still working off that checklist he'd begun in the infirmary, he realized, making sure everyone was all right. Snape treasured each story, for some reason, finding each one precious and lovely, almost lyrical in the telling, in the harmony of voices and story… and wondered how he had missed it – allowed himself to miss it – before.

But that was when he did not dare to allow himself to care about them… did not dare even think it, needed to purge himself of it regularly, dump it into Dumbledore's Pensieve, or into vials to be stored safely out of mind, out of the Dark Lord's mental reach, safely away from his repeated violations of Snape's mind. While his heart warmed and squeezed whenever he thought of it, it did not hurt, which he assumed was the effect of the potion he took at every meal, protecting him from the worst of it.

"What's that you're drinking, Professor?"

Snape inhaled slowly and set down the vial. He tented his fingers over his plate. "A potion… that… Poppy gave me… Poppy and Smethwyck."

"What's it for?" the boy asked, merely curious.

Snape hesitated. _No more secrets… no more lies._ "My heart."

The boy frowned at him. "What's wrong with your heart?"

"… Apparently Nagini's venom has… attacked the muscle, weakened it… and the Cruciatus curse… did not help."

"But… you're gonna be all right, aren't you? They can fix it, right? With the potion and all?" the boy asked his eyes darkening.

He hesitated again, but looked the boy in the eyes. For some reason, that _did_ hurt. "It will help, yes." The boy stared at him. He could practically see it in his eyes, the knowledge that he was not telling him the whole of it. He swallowed and nodded. _The whole of it, then_. Or at least more.

"It will likely shorten my life." He held up a hand. "I'm not dead _yet_, Potter," he said intently, in response to the boy's look of alarm.

"But… but… what…?" The boy turned pale.

Snape shook his head uncertainly. "I am not in any immediate danger…" _Though, he did not really know that, to be truthful. _"It is likely that I will yet live for many years…" He paused, sighed at the boy's continued paleness, and went on. "… but it is unlikely that I will live to a hundred and fifty, either."

Potter narrowed his eyes at him, and Snape thought he saw them gleaming, knew the boy knew he was putting a good face on it, saw the boy's anxiety. He shut his eyes a moment. _Please don't, Potter._

He opened his eyes to find the boy's face stricken, his eyes filling with tears, could practically see the boy's mind working… knew instantly what the boy was thinking.

"No," he said softly, almost – for him – gently. The boy startled, looked guilty, and tried to hide it.

"What?"

Snape looked at him for several long moments, shaking his head slightly. "No, Potter. I told you – I don't want it. I don't want you to use it. Don't even think… for a moment…"

"But…"

He leaned forward across the table. His chest clenched tightly. _Calm yourself!_

"Potter," he said quietly, "if you cannot do this, if you cannot hold to your vow for _this_, for _me_…" He did not say _for someone you hated, had reason – have reason – to hate. _"… how will you keep it when it's someone you _love_ who's at risk?"

The boy swallowed and fought for control… gained the upper hand. "I love _you_, Professor," he said quietly.

He said it almost flatly, just a statement of fact, a piece of truth, as if it were self-evident, as if he had said _Thestrals fly _or _Hagrid is a half-giant. _He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost – almost – did not register, and when it did, Snape found that he could consider it almost without a twinge in his chest or a twist of his stomach, just a fact, like pondering the way a potion worked or a list of ingredients, almost dispassionately… almost. He was grateful.

_But… how had that happened? _he wondered. _Potter… _His mind flicked to James… then to Lupin for some reason. His chest warmed, but it soothed him rather than hurt.

He sat back in his chair, elbows on its arms, tenting his fingers out of habit. He stretched out his long, thin legs, kicking one of Potter's feet by accident. He considered the boy, who looked like he was wondering much the same thing.

"Nevertheless," he said finally, quietly, "you will not use the Elder Wand to make me better. Is that clear?"

"It's my choice, Professor," the boy said almost as quietly.

"It's your choice whether to use or not use the Elder Wand _in general_, Potter – but this is _my _life we're discussing, and my choice matters rather more in this instance than does yours, I think." His black eyes glittered intently at the boy.

Potter looked at him a long while – or at least, his face was turned in Snape's direction, though he was not really looking at him. His fingertips met over his plate, his hands quite still. He shook his head from time to time, arguing with himself, Snape knew… arguing with Snape, likely, in his mind. Snape waited while the thoughts and feelings fought it out amongst themselves in Potter's mind and heart. The boy's eyes kept threatening tears, but Snape watched silently, willing the boy calm, letting the boy see his own acceptance.

_Don't do this, Potter… Please._

Finally, the boy took a deep breath and exhaled, accepting it… trying to accept it, anyway. "I can't use it, can I? I can't… I know. I can't." His eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Professor…"

Snape smiled wryly. "Not to worry, Potter… I'm still here."

The boy flushed.

"I'm _still here_, you foolish boy," he growled.

The boy hesitated but nodded.

Snape breathed a sigh. It was easy, then, he found, to talk with the boy, after all, about what he'd discussed with Bartley.

"When I was in London, I met with my solicitor to discuss my affairs," he began. "I have no heir – no near blood relative, anyway," he said. Then he did hesitate a moment. "After the… after Voldemort returned at the end of your fourth year, when Dumbledore asked me to return to his side so that I could give information to the Order, I made out my will…"

Potter frowned and shook his head, in response, Snape could tell, to the memories that had evoked – his that Potter had seen in the Pensieve, and the boy's own. He went on.

"I named you as my heir," he said, lips twitching when the boy's mouth opened in shock. He held up a hand to forestall whatever the boy was going to say. "Out of… guilt, then, I think… I know. I felt that, as I'd stolen your parents from you, the least I could do was see to your support."

"I _have _money, Professor…"

"Yes – I know, though I didn't know that at the time. Nonetheless, it is not a decision I wish to reverse. You remain my legal heir. However, my solicitor has suggested…" He paused, inhaled. "…that we do something more formal… He points out that questions could be raised…"

"What kind of questions?"

He wondered how to say this, but the boy answered his own question.

"Neville… Neville said that Rita Skeeter…"

Snape nodded.

"… wrote that I was dangerous… that I couldn't be trusted…"

Snape made an angry sound. "_Damned woman!_ _She's a…"_ He waved a hand, biting his tongue, not wanting to utter the word that came to mind as he thought of the damage the gossip could do – had already done. He mastered his anger. _Empty your mind… control your emotions… Not good for your heart, Severus._

"Yeah – but people believe the stuff she writes, don't they?"

He nodded again, working to keep his stomach from churning. "That _is_ the problem, Potter… so the question is how to protect you – protect both of us – from the accusation that you _forced_ _me_…" he said sarcastically "… to hand over my _vast store_ of riches."

Potter laughed. That helped.

"Indeed." He thought a moment, leaned a little more toward the boy over the table, one finger drawing idly with a bit of condensation from his glass. "That is one reason not to use the Elder Wand, you know. People will already watch and wonder – are you more powerful than Voldemort? Are you the next dark lord? If you appear to have greater luck, greater wealth or success, people will draw… conclusions. It would not be safe. _You _would not be safe. You understand, don't you?"

"Yeah," the boy said after a while. "…like the first brother."

"Pardon?"

"The Peverells. They were the original owners of the Deathly Hallows. The first brother – he was power-hungry and boasted about the Elder Wand, and he was killed for it."

Snape frowned in confusion. "A child's tale."

The boy just looked at him. His mind raised the question, pointed out the details. _The invisibility cloak… the Elder Wand… _He shook his head. _Just more to burden the boy._

"How did you come by the invisibility cloak?"

"My dad… he was descended from the third brother – Ignotus Peverell," the boy said.

"Directly descended, then," Snape said.

"Yeah," the boy said, frowning.

Snape shrugged. "The wizarding world has a distressing tendency toward inbreeding," he said. "It weakens the strain, some misguided belief that marrying within our kind concentrates the magic. We're almost all related one way or another."

"Yeah. That's what Sirius said. But… doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Doesn't marrying another wizard – or witch I mean – concentrate the magic?"

Snape shrugged again. "Wouldn't account for Muggle-borns, would it? I'm of the opinion that half-bloods such as myself and you – though you're not really a half-blood, since your mother was a witch – are stronger, physically and mentally anyway. However, that is neither here nor there."

He leaned back in his chair. "The point, Potter, is that I would like to do something formal to secure you as my heir."

Potter hesitated a moment. "Like what, Professor?" But Snape could see that the boy knew perfectly well what he was going to propose. "The inheritance bond," the boy said, answering his own question again.

Snape nodded. "It's up to you, of course, but Bartley thinks that would eliminate any question of coercion."

"You'd _do_ that?" The boy looked thunderstruck. _Bad pun,_ Snape thought, his eyes flicking to the boy's scar, barely visible through his black fringe.

The twitch of a smile crossed his face. "Well… as I have no other heir…"

"But what if… what if you get better… what if you got married… had kids?"

Snape looked at the boy, amused and… something else. "There was only ever one woman for me, Potter… and as she has a son…" he said softly, letting it trail off.

The boy swallowed and looked at his plate.

"In any case," Snape said, pushing away from the table, "give it some thought. Take your time. Though – I would rather take care of it sooner than later."

The boy's head came up in alarm. "I thought you said…"

"I assure you, Potter, I have no intention of dying this evening," he said, his eyes glinting and his mouth twitching in amusement. "Take your time."

The boy nodded.

Snape made his way to the library. Causidicus'tome_ Legal Matters in Wizarding History_ was no small book, as its title suggested. Madam Pince signed it out to him without question, merely patting his hand as he placed it on her tall desk. Though his fingers twitched at her touch, he found he really did not mind, and actually smiled at her as he took the book back into his hands. Filch was entering the library as he left. He wished the caretaker a good morning, eyebrows twitching in amusement. Filch and Pince's dalliance was a poorly-kept secret, at least amongst the faculty.

He left the book on the table for the boy to find. He would need to refresh his memory about the procedure if the boy consented, but that could wait until the boy made his decision. He headed to his lab.

At lunch, the boy returned from his morning meeting with Minerva.

"This is the book, then?" he said when Snape emerged from the lab, drawn by the aroma of steak and kidney pie.

"Yes – I've marked the chapter," Snape said, watching the boy leaf through the book, pausing at pages that looked interesting. He saw the boy's fingers twitch and knew he was reacting to the book's content. He smiled to himself, recognizing the reaction, much like his own when he had run across the book his first year as professor, unlimited access to the Restricted Section of the library providing fodder for his scholarly mind and intellectual company those first years when the faculty was still suspicious of him, despite Dumbledore's assurances.

"Perhaps some bits of parchment to use as markers," he suggested, waving over some strips he kept on his desk for that purpose.

"Thanks," the boy said taking the strips without looking up.

"Don't get gravy on it – Madam Pince will singe your ears off." The boy waved a hand absently. Snape smiled again and turned to his lunch.

* * *

_That was Chapter 25 of 30. Bring it on!_


	27. Into the Pensieve

**Disclaimer:** All things are Jo's except Mithraic Rituals, plot, Uberto Causidicus, High Latin spells...

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

INTO THE PENSIEVE

The next morning, he emerged from his bedroom to find Potter already up, sitting on the sofa with the book in his lap.

"Bit early for you, isn't it?" he asked mildly.

The boy's head shot up and he slammed the book shut. Snape twitched a frown. _What was that about? _"I didn't mean to startle you, Potter."

"It's _Harry,_ Professor," the boy corrected with greater than usual intensity.

Snape considered him a moment. "Something on your mind, Potter?"

The boy opened his mouth to say something, his eyes searching Snape's face. However, he shook his head slightly and said, "Ah… no, Professor."

Snape eyed him dubiously. "Are you sure?"

The boy took a deep breath and let it out. "… Yeah…" by which Snape understood that he meant "No."

He did not push the matter, however. If and when the boy wanted to confide in him, he would. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes, only to have it fall forward, refusing to cooperate. "Breakfast?" he suggested.

The boy left the book on the sofa and they headed to the Great Hall. Thankfully, Minerva had not told the faculty that Snape had been back in the infirmary, so he was spared their concern. After breakfast, they made their visit to the graveyard. It was a beautiful day. Snape expected the boy to head to Hagrid's or call his broom, or even go visit Firenze, but the boy headed back to the castle, at his side.

"What are your plans for the day?" he asked.

"Oh… I thought I'd read some more," the boy answered.

He twitched an eyebrow. "Planning to compete with Miss Granger, Mr. Potter?"

The boy snorted. "_No one _can compete with Hermione!"

"Indeed."

In light of the boy's intentions, Snape also headed to their quarters. He could mix potions in his private lab as well as – or even better than – in the classroom, and the Ministry had sent a request for Veritaserum, their need greater than usual due to the upcoming trials of Death Eaters and Snatchers. Arthur had confided that Kingsley trusted Snape's potion-making – and honesty – more than the Ministry's potion makers', and had specifically requested a cauldronful of the truth serum from Snape's hand for the most critical interviews and investigations. That was more urgent now, in light of the attack on Potter. The boy headed back to his book on the sofa, and Snape headed to the lab.

Mid-morning, as he was measuring out linden to add to the cauldron already simmering with valerian, motherwort and other ingredients for Veritaserum, the boy wandered into the lab and sat down on a stool, swinging it idly and watching. He looked… preoccupied.

"Something bothering you, Potter?" he asked over the lip of the measuring cup he was eyeing.

"Nnnoo…" the boy drew out.

Snape held still a moment, contemplating the boy. Obviously something was on the boy's mind. He completed his measuring, identified a reasonable stopping point in the overall procedure, and worked toward that, aware of the boy's continued preoccupation, but focusing on his potion. Veritaserum was tricky, and a slip could spell the difference between efficacy and death. At the stopping point, he put down his tools and ingredients, wiped his hands on a cloth, and pulled a stool to sit at an empty spot across the wide work table from Potter.

"What's on your mind?" he asked quietly.

The boy contemplated his fingers, looked off at nothing, and finally raised his eyes to Snape's. He took a deep breath.

"Adopt me," he said.

Snape blinked. "What?" His brain stopped, stuttered, started up again.

"Adopt me," the boy said intently, his eyes fixed on Snape's.

Snape leaned his elbows on the table, tented his fingers to his lips, and watched the boy, taking inventory: James' black, untidy hair… Lily's green eyes… the scar under the boy's fringe… the clasped hands filled with slight scars that marked the dangers the boy had encountered the past year…

_What in the name of Hecate, Circe and Merlin…?_

He drew his fingers down below his lips. "Why?" Before the boy could answer, he went on. "If you desire a family, Potter – and I assure you, I quite understand if you do – surely the Weasleys…"

The boy shook his head.

"Why not?"

The boy's lips twitched. "Well – for one thing, they've got enough kids and…" he colored and ducked his head, scratching uncomfortably at the neck of his shirt, "… I think… I'd just be one more kid… you know?"

Snape considered the boy a moment and nodded. _Honest. _Though, realistically, Potter would never be… _could_ never be… _just one more…_ He sighed. The boy really did need more than Arthur and Molly, for all their generous hearts, could give him.

"And…" If anything, the boy's blush deepened. "I can't exactly marry – I mean _date _– my sister, can I?"

Snape's lips twitched. "Indeed. That would be… awkward." His eyes sparkled in amusement before he said, "Aberforth…?"

"Oh – well… Aberforth's… he's great. But… he's… he's old enough to be my grandfather… my great grandfather, even."

Snape nodded. "True."

"So…"

Snape wondered why in the name of Carna and Asclepius his chest and stomach did not hurt. Perhaps it was the calm, matter-of-fact manner in which they were talking.

"I'm not sure that I'm…" he trailed off.

"What?" the boy challenged.

"I'm not exactly an appropriate choice, Potter," he said, echoing what he had said to Arthur and Molly.

"Why not?"

"_Why not?_"He frowned. The answer to that should be obvious. "In addition to my health problems," he began. The boy shrugged impatiently. He started again. "Your parents…"

"My parents _aren't here_, Professor."

"Precisely. It is precisely because… It is precisely that… I _killed _your _parents, _boy!"

"No you didn't." The boy seemed prepared for that, raising his voice insistently. "_Voldemort_ did. And you didn't betray them, either – Pettigrew did that."

"Yes, but…" he began, exasperated.

"Look, Professor," the boy interrupted, "I know all that, but…"

"It is _not_ irrelevant, boy! Your father would…"

"_My father_ isn't here, Professor," the boy said, his voice rising further, his face flushing. "He's _never_ been here! _He _wasn'there to help me through all of this, to protect me! My father's _never_ been here for me!" His eyes filled with tears.

Snape's chest and stomach _did_ decide to burn at that.

"Why aren't _you_ my father? Why _aren't_ you?"

"_What?_"

"He never did _anything_ for me, and you… you…" The boy gulped. "He should have lived. He should have protected me – like _you_ did." His tears spilled over, tracking down his face.

Snape was stunned. A pain shot into his neck, and bile tried to force its way up his gullet. He fought it down with supreme effort.

"_Your father __died_ for you!" Snape found himself raising his voice. "What more did you _expect_ him to do, damn it?" His teeth clenched and his face paled with agitation and something like fear.

_How did he end up defending James, of all people? How did he get here?_

_What are you doing, Potter? _He was panting, apprehension making his heart race. What was he afraid of?He couldn't think. _What are you thinking, Potter?_

"I never protected you, Potter," he croaked. "Don't you understand? I _never _protected you!"

Potter looked up at him, stunned, confused… hurt. Snape put his head in his hands, shaking it, clenching his hair in his bewilderment. His chest hurt. He was going to be sick. _Not here_, he told himself. _Not in the lab… not in front of the boy. Oh Merlin, he was going to be sick._

He lurched to his feet and out the door, making it to his private bathroom just in time to empty his breakfast into the washbasin, retching until nothing was left, dry heaves shaking him, making his chest hurt and leaving him weak and sweating, needing to hold on to stay upright. When he finally turned away, Potter was standing in the doorway, white as parchment and almost as sweaty and pale as he was himself. He shut his eyes and shook his head, but that made him nauseous again. Opening his eyes, he took the towel the boy held out, used it to wipe his face, avoiding the boy's eyes, wishing… wishing he knew what to say, what to do… wishing the boy did not look so devastated and scared… wishing there was something… He looked up.

"I'm sorry, Potter."

"I'm sorry, Professor."

They spoke at the same time. Snape nearly laughed, that hurt so much.

He waved away the boy's apology. "I think I need to rest a bit." He allowed the boy to slip an arm around him and help him walk shakily to his bed

"Do you want me to get…?"

"No. Just… I just need to rest."

The boy nodded silently, miserably, and turned to leave his room.

"Potter…"

The boy turned back.

"It's all right, Potter. I'm fine. There is nothing to forgive."

The boy gulped and tears came to his eyes. "I'm sorr… I mean…"

Snape nodded tiredly. "It's all right. Wake me in an hour, would you?"

He was awake, meditating, trying to calm his mind and his heart, before the boy tapped hesitantly on his door. He waved his hand at the door and nodded when the boy came in, then went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. Potter had set out some ginger root tea. He thanked the boy quietly, noting that he was really developing a fine sense of potions, and took the tea to the lab. The boy said nothing, just watched him, then turned and left their quarters.

It did not occur to him, for a while, to wonder where the boy had gone. He assumed he was off visiting Hagrid again, or taking a walk around the grounds to calm himself, or meeting with McGonagall. He finished the Veritaserum, though it would take a full moon cycle to mature, thankful he had stopped at a reasonable spot earlier in the day, and busied himself with packets of supplies for his first years, allowing the familiarity of preparation to soothe him. He sent the packets off to the potions closet in the classroom and took a break.

Emerging from his private bathroom, he stopped in puzzlement. Something was just ever so slightly off in his bedroom, but he couldn't put his finger on it. After a moment's consideration, he decided it must have been house elf activity. Perhaps they had shifted his bed slightly to clean underneath. In any case, there had been no intrusion. His personal ward would have seen to that.

On impulse, he opened the door to Potter's room, just to check, the boy's ward melting away at his touch. It seemed normally disarrayed. He realized the boy had taken things out of his borrowed trunk, his new one replacing it at the foot of his bed. He'd begun to make the room his own, his school books and birthday presents on shelves, Lily and James' photograph on his night stand along with pictures of his friends, who waved at Snape from across the room. _Potter… _ _Why did that make his chest hurt?_

Something gleamed on the boy's shelves, and he turned. His breath caught in his chest. His own Order of Merlin was sitting on the shelf, next to the potions book and journal he had given the boy for his birthday. The boy must have found it while he was rooting about for potion ingredients. He raised a hand to rub his forehead.

_Potter… _he thought in a mental growl, fighting off an absurd desire to weep.

He turned to leave, but the map, open on the boy's bed, caught his eye. Snape assumed the boy had checked to see whether Hagrid was in before heading off for his visit. He snorted and went to fold it up for the boy, noting the increase in the number of moving dots that reflected the castle's slowly increasing population, now that August was here.

He glanced at Hagrid's hut on the Map, expecting to see the boy's dot there, but though _Rubeus Hagrid _was duly noted in Remus' elegant hand, _Harry Potter _was not. Curious, he looked at the greenhouses. _Pomona Sprout _and _Minerva McGonagall _were unmoving dots at the end of Greenhouse One, where Pomona kept her desk.

He finally found the boy's dot in the Headmistress' quarters. He wondered what the boy was doing there alone. His mind flashed to his room and its slightly off feel. He mentally reviewed his sense of the room… and then… He turned to sit on the bed, staring at the map. He raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing it in thought. _What was the boy doing? _Well – not_ what_ – that was perfectly clear, but _why? _He shook his head.

He sat for some moments in thought, trying to make up his mind. Finally he stood, left the map on the boy's bed, and muttered, "All right, Potter…" He hesitated only a moment, shaking his head in wry acceptance. "All right." Then he turned and left his quarters, directing his feet to Minerva's spiral stairs.

He found the boy at the beginning, and wondered if he had waited until he heard the spiral stair turning before emptying the vial into the Pensieve and dipping his head to fall into Snape's memories once again. Had he known Snape would come? He rather thought the boy did, somehow, that he'd left the map open intending Snape to come find him. Or was that just coincidence? Though… life had taught him that there were no such things as coincidences.

In any case, they were here now. He moved up to stand next to the boy. The boy knew he was there without looking, without Snape making a sound.

They stood side by side, watching Lily – nine year old Lily and her eleven year old sister arguing about Lily's budding magical abilities. Snape closed his eyes against the memory of himself at nine – at his clothes flapping ludicrously, a mixture of his parents' cast-offs, and at his awkwardness with the girl he'd spied on from the bushes. But he forced them open, willing himself to watch, to see what Potter was seeing, to try to see it from the boy's point of view. They had to do this – together. He knew that.

_From the boy's point of view…_

_Don't kill me!_

_Always…_

_Don't tell… you mustn't ever tell… especially the boy…_

_He is mediocre, arrogant…_

But…

_He's got Padfoot… He's got Padfoot in the place where it's hidden…_

_Racing to the Whomping Willow…_

_Uttering counter curses next to Quirrell in the Quidditch stand…_

_Watching from behind the trees as the boy dove into the ice-crusted pool, his heart pounding as the surface roiled and the boy did not emerge… about to act when the boy's friend arrived…_

_I thought we were protecting him…_

_Always…_

He pulled out of the Pensieve first, turning to steady Potter a moment later. He felt… overwhelmed. Not by the memories themselves… just by… seeing it all together like that, a rapid, stabbing journey along precipices, a walk across shards of glass and brass… He was shocked at what he had shared, what the boy knew of him now. _He must hate me. _He could not bring himself to look at the boy.

"You knew," the boy said, turning to him once he got his balance.

"What?"

"You knew you were going to die. You knew it for…" He saw the boy do some rapid calculations, saw on the boy's face that he'd figured it out. "… nineteen years… You knew you were going to die."

He hesitated. "…Yes. There was always that possibility." He closed his eyes against it. _I should have died… I wish I had died before all this began…_

"And these last two years – you _knew_ you were a dead man. But you did it anyway, didn't you? What were you doing, then, if not protecting me?"

Snape looked at the boy then, shaking his head ever so slightly, repeatedly… "Potter…"

He raised a hand to his forehead, forced it down again, heaved a sigh and straightened, tugging at his sweater with an unsatisfying _give, _compared to tugging at his waistcoat.

"Come here," he said, and pulled the boy to the chairs in front of Minerva's desk. "Sit." He pushed the boy into a chair and pulled the other so that they sat nearly knee to knee. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands lightly between them. He thought for a long moment before shaking his head once, firmly.

"I tried, maybe," he said, intent on the boy's face. "I tried to protect you. I tried to protect them," he said, waving his hand toward the memories of Lily and James swirling in silver in the Pensieve. He ran his hand through his hair. "I thought I _was_ protecting you, but… I just… wasn't paying attention…" He exhaled heavily. "I just didn't see..." He shook his head, looked away and then back. "I was ignorant."

Potter opened his mouth to protest, but Snape waved a hand. "No – it's the truth. I didn't ask the right questions." He laughed bitterly. "I didn't ask _any_ questions."

His eyes flashed to Dumbledore's portrait where the old headmaster was sleeping – or pretending to sleep. He shook his head and turned back to the boy.

"I am responsible for your parents' deaths, Potter. Don't ever forget that," he said quietly. "They died to save you – both of them. They died protecting you." He kept his eyes on the boy. _Don't you see?_

There was a long moment of silence. "But they didn't, Professor," the boy said. "They didn't protect me… _they_ didn't save me, either. They only _tried_…" he said, searching Snape's face, his eyes. "Just like you."

_They only tried… Just like you._

He had never thought of it that way before. It froze him into stillness, stunned him into immobility, afraid to move lest the pattern of it shatter before he could capture it, examine it… find the flaw.

_There had to be a flaw in that… hadn't there? Because… because…_

But he _had_ tried. To protect Potter… to protect them all – Minerva… Dumbledore… Remus… Arthur and Molly… George. _Oh, Fred…_ His heart hurt and he closed his eyes against the pain and the tears that kept wanting to overtake him.

And why? To keep Voldemort from killing Lily, to begin with. And then to atone – as if he could ever atone, could ever…

And then… because he couldn't bear the thought anymore, that anyone else would feel what he felt when he thought of Lily, when he thought of James. Because he knew what it was to love and lose, to have that empty place that kept echoing hollowly in his chest… to bear it… always. To live in full awareness of what could have been but would never be. He couldn't bear the thought of any more pain in the world, wanted to keep people he had come to accept, then respect, then… And the realization of it tore his breath from him again, how he loved them… Minerva… Dumbledore… Arthur and Molly… the students… even Lupin… How he'd never let himself think it, say it… even think the word… How he fended it off because it hurt too much… how he wanted them all to be _safe… safe… safe_…

He realized Potter was still looking at him, and tried to bring himself back to the room, back to Dumbledore's – _Minerva's _study. He stared at the boy, puzzled… bewildered in fact. The boy held his eyes a moment longer, then pushed his chair back, rose and went back to the stand on which the Pensieve sat. Unmoving, Snape stared at the place the boy had been sitting, barely aware of what the boy was doing.

After a moment, Potter came to stand in front of him. He looked up at the boy, still trying to figure it out. The boy looked down at him, some strange combination of understanding, hurt, fear, and pleading in the dark green eyes. Snape's mind was still frozen.

_There must be a flaw in that… wasn't there?_

The boy pushed something into his hand – a vial – then reached out. Snape sat perfectly still, some small, observing, still-thinking part of him wondering what Potter was going to do. The boy put a hand on Snape's shoulder and stood a moment looking down at him.

"You've been _trying_ my whole life, Professor," he said, his eyes blazing… _something_… at Snape. Then he turned… and left.

He sat with it a long time, his mind starting, stopping, stuttering over it. _The flaw… the only flaw that he could see… was that the boy's parents were dead... had died trying to protect him… and that he, Snape, was – for the moment – still here._

_There must be a flaw in that_. But he couldn't find it.

What was it, he wondered, that frightened him so?

_Coward!_

_No. He would __not__. He would not accept that…_ if for no other reason than that the boy needed – deserved – something better from him. _He_ needed something better from himself.

So… what was it?

_Choose… Eligere… Choose…_

Where was _his_ choice?

It was in Potter's hand under his on his door… in Potter's name in his will. It was folded black pajamas at the foot of Potter's bed, and his hand writing _Harry James Potter_ under his own in a potions book. It was in Potter throwing himself at Snape mid-nightmare and in the limp, devastated Potter in his arms as he carried him through the halls of the school. It was in his arms around the boy, comforting him as he sobbed out _I thought I was dead…_ in his acceptance of the boy's access spell and the fact that he, Snape, had given the boy access. _Manu mea est tuum…_

It was in the Shrieking Shack itself… at his fleeing McGonagall's _Coward! _without fighting back, even to defend himself. It was in kicking aside Potter's wand rather than hexing the boy, his _Fight back! Fight back, you coward! _chasing him off the grounds… It was in holding it secret – from friends as well as enemies… to protect them, to keep them safe… It was in his _Sectumsempra_, trying to save George and Lupin even though it might reveal him, lead to his death sooner, rather than later… in his gratitude that the Crucio had hit him instead of the boy… But mostly it was in Potter… clinging to Snape as he worked it through - life and death, staying and going… His heart clenched around something that was Potter-shaped and Potter-sized, and he thought he might die of it.

He had already chosen, hadn't he?

His heart held onto it… would not let him escape. _No more hiding, Severus._

_I so choose._

But his heart revolted. How dare he? How in Merlin's name did he dare? James' son… Lily's son… His heart sank. He did not deserve this – not in the least. How could the boy ever forgive him? How could he ever forgive himself? No – it was impossible.

But… if the boy wanted it… how dare he refuse?

No – it was his own wishful thinking, that was all. To protect the boy, he had to say no – didn't he? It could only lead to hurt.

Or was it his own pain he was protecting against? Did he dare it? To risk it? To let himself choose… let Potter in…? _But – hadn't he already let the boy in? Hadn't he, in fact, let them all in?_

_Face it, Severus._

_How had that happened… love?_

_Well… Trelawney was half-right, anyway._

_Manu mea est tuum… Manu tua meum est. Eligere._

_Sic eligere. Sic sumo. I so choose._

He and Potter sat in their study silently, carefully avoiding each other, neither of them ceding the floor by going to their rooms. Potter's eyes were red, and though Snape never caught him actually crying, he kept wiping his nose with his sleeve. Snape wished he would stop. It made his chest hurt.

He only pretended to read, sitting at his desk, so aware of the boy it practically burned. Each time he felt the boy's gaze on him, he shut his eyes. The few times he looked up to find the boy staring at him, it went through him like a knife and his hand would shake as he turned a page in the book in front of him. He swallowed past the lump in his own throat with difficulty.

Finally, he closed his book with a sigh, not remembering a thing he'd spent the last hour reading. He watched Potter for a moment, where he sat at the table, and conjured two cups of tea. He picked them up, took the few steps to the sitting area in front of the fireplace, and quietly said, "Potter… come here." The boy looked up and he lifted a cup at him.

"Tea," he said. "Just tea – I promise."

The boy shoved his chair back against the wall and stood. Snape waited until the boy took up a place on the sofa, handed him his tea, and sat next to him. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, just letting the hot mug warm his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees, so close to Potter he could feel the warmth of the boy. The boy's posture mimicked his own. Neither of them drank.

Snape sighed. He put out a hand and patted the boy's back awkwardly. The boy's shoulders shook and he began to sob, turning slightly to lean into Snape. Snape set his cup on the floor, rescued the boy's cup before he spilled it, and leaned back on the sofa, putting both arms around the boy, whispering, "Shh… shh… I'm sorry… It'll be all right… I'm sorry…" His heart ached.

The boy cried himself out, then fell asleep, his head buried against Snape's shoulder. Only then did Snape allow his own tears to overflow and trace themselves down his face, released by the warmth of the boy against him, perhaps. Sometime after midnight, he roused the boy enough to get him to bed and pull off his shoes. He pulled the covers over the boy and sat on the bed, watching him fall asleep.

_Potter…_

After a while, he sighed, rose, and went to his room.

* * *

_That was Chapter 26 of 30. Continuing..._


	28. London Again

**Disclaimer: **Jo's world. You know that. My plot, Latin spells, Mithraic Rituals, Umberto Causidicus... anything else you don't recognize... You still with me? Lemme know.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LONDON AGAIN

The boy _was_ off to see Hagrid this time. Snape tried to concentrate on potions, but his mind did not seem to be able to focus this morning. He kept finding himself making mistakes – a waste of ingredients, not to mention potentially dangerous – for both him and whoever would ingest the serum he was making into… something other than what he intended. At the third error, he acknowledged that he was not in the right frame of mind for delicate precision. He banished the latest disaster, cleaned the cauldron and work table, and left in search of Minerva.

He found her in her office. There were voices behind the door as he stepped off the spiral stair, but he did not let that deter him this time. Septima Vector opened the door at Snape's knock. "Severus! How are you? How's Potter doing? Minerva was just telling me you've put him up for the summer."

He looked past the Arithmancy professor to McGonagall, smiling at him from behind her desk, and caught a flash of Dumbledore's gaze before he turned back to Septima. "He's doing well – improving."

"Minerva said he's coming back for his NEWTs."

"Yes – so he has decided."

"That's wonderful – for him, I mean. He'll need some protection this year – all that torrid gossip that's going around, poor boy."

He closed his eyes at that. For some reason, Septima seemed to think this required patting Snape on the arm. As he had literally never even shook hands with the witch, this made Snape even more uncomfortable than usual. _Why must everyone __pat__ him? _However, he restrained the urge to hex the woman, his need to talk with McGonagall foremost in his mind.

"I'll leave the two of you," Vector said, pulling her traveling cloak from a hook behind the door. "Good day, Minerva – I'll see you at supper."

Snape breathed a sigh of relief when the woman left, looked permission from Minerva and shut the door. Turning to face her, he again caught movement in Dumbledore's frame, and glared at the portrait. However, he could not conjure up anger, his and Potter's visit to Dumbledore's tomb settling loss and grief over him more strongly than ire, and his previous urge to throw things at the manipulative, conniving headmaster seemed to have abated. _Well – that was probably better for his heart_, he reminded himself.

"Come, Severus, sit," McGonagall said motioning him to sit on a chair across from her. "I was just about to have some tea. Join me?"

He nodded. They talked of inconsequential things as they made their tea – Filch and Pince, the returning professors… Minerva sat back in her chair, blowing slightly on her cup to cool it. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Severus? Not that you're not welcome any time, of course." She smiled at him warmly. "What's on your mind?"

He'd thought about how to begin on his way here.

"I don't know if you know this, Minerva…"

_Of course she did not know it. Why would she know it? Unless… _He eyed Dumbledore's portrait.

"… but four years ago, when it became clear that Voldemort might return, I… knew that Dumbledore would ask me to return to Voldemort's service…"

He suddenly realized he had never talked about this with her… with anyone… other than his testimony before the Wizengamot and what he'd told Potter. His stomach tightened in memory of those interviews. Odd that of all people _Potter _should be the one to know. He shrugged. _I guess that makes sense_. He took a breath.

"When Voldemort returned, Dumbledore asked me to return to his service to spy for the Order." Minerva nodded. "As that seemed likely to be dangerous, I determined it would be… prudent… to make out my will. I named Potter as my heir."

McGonagall's eyes glinted with something he could not decipher.

"I did so because…" He got stuck. That was further than he was willing to go. He swallowed. "In any case, that will is still in effect."

Minerva nodded.

"However, my solicitor suggests… he is of the opinion that… that could lead to Potter being questioned after I… in case of my… demise… questions about whether he coerced me or some damned fool thing." He waved a hand in agitated annoyance.

Minerva said nothing, just watched him over her tea.

"In any case, Bartley – my solicitor – recommended something more formal." He hesitated. "I was considering an inheritance bond…"

There was a small gasp from one of the portraits, and Snape caught the glint of Dumbledore's eyes through the man's slit lids. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Phineas sit up straighter in his chair.

Minerva contemplated him a moment. "That would be a very unusual step, Severus… if it is even possible."

"I know but…" He ran his hand through his hair. "… it would negate certain… accusations the boy could face after… after I'm gone."

"And – were you planning on leaving any time soon?" she asked dryly. He was reminded of a similar conversation he'd had with Dumbledore.

"No – of course not," he said, irritated. "However, as Smethwyck is unable to give me an estimate… It is just prudent to have things taken care of."

Minerva nodded.

"And we'll need witnesses. I was wondering…"

"Of course, Severus," Minerva said warmly. "Have you discussed this with Potter?"

"Yes."

"And?"

Snape sighed.

"He didn't ever disagree, did he?"

"No – he…" He dropped his gaze to his tea cup and realized he'd been twisting it in his hands, more tea in the saucer than he'd drunk. He placed the cup and saucer on Minerva's desk and clasped his hands. _Calm yourself. _He took a breath.

"He… suggested adoption."

Minerva's eyes warmed further. Phineas went still in his frame. Dumbledore gave up the sham of pretending to sleep and sat forward in his chair, watching Snape intently. Movements in other portraits suggested other headmasters were also listening. Snape waved off that awareness. _Irrelevant._

"Adoption," Minerva repeated. "That's… that's a big step, Severus."

"Yes." He sighed. "I told him no."

"Why ever did you do that, Sev?" McGonagall said softly.

He looked up at her. "Minerva, surely you see… the boy… his parents…" _Merlin, the very idea derailed his thinking, made him nearly incoherent. No wonder he couldn't pay attention this morning_. He shook his head. Why didn't anyone see what a bad idea this was? Arthur… Aberforth… Molly…

_Wee Potty Potter's got himself a new daddy…_

_Damn it._

Minerva was watching him struggle with it. He glared up at Dumbledore. The former headmaster was watching him, too, something suspiciously like tears in his eyes. Snape raised a hand to his forehead, tracing a line from his brow to his hair line. He stopped when he realized his finger's path mimicked the shape of Potter's scar. He lowered his hand shakily. After several minutes, he realized that he was sitting in Minerva's office, saying nothing… that he'd been shaking his head the entire time. He looked up to find Minerva's sympathetic eyes on him.

"The boy loves you, Severus… and you love him."

_Yes… there was that. Though… why is it that everyone seemed to see that before he did?_

"There's no one better."

He snorted and shook his head. "Minerva… I'm _not well. _What if I die? I'd leave him alone again. I can't do that to him."

"Do you think _not _adopting him would make that hurt any less, Severus? The boy loves you… and he obviously wants this… He needs you."

"I…" He shook his head again. "…I should go…"

Minerva put her tea back on her desk. She walked around to where he sat, still shaking his head, and put a hand on his shoulder, looking down at him, her eyes full of warmth and understanding. "Whatever the two of you decide, Severus, you have my complete support."

He swallowed. "Thank you, Minerva," he whispered.

_What am I doing?_

He went to visit Remus, his need so great that he imagined the werewolf already waiting, leaning again on the tombstone – accompanied, unexpectedly, by Tonks and Fred. _What are they doing here? _He stopped and looked at the three of them. _Merlin, he missed them being in the world._ It made his chest hurt and he almost did not care, almost welcomed it. Maybe his own nearness to death pulled them out into the world, ready to greet him, walk him through the veil.

"All right, you three," he said, almost accusingly. "What's your vote? What do I do, eh? Remus…" Surely James' friend would disagree.

Remus laughed lightly. Tonks smiled at him, her chin resting on Remus' shoulder where he perched on his tombstone. Fred gave him a cheeky grin. _That would be the greatest joke…_

_Yes… wouldn't it?_

He looked back at Tonks, and something in her gaze made him turn his eyes to her tombstone.

_The Greatest Magic is Love_

He stood there for a long time.

_All right,_ he sighed. He looked up at the three of them. "You're all conspiring in this, aren't you?" he asked. Fred laughed and the other two smiled. He shook his head, knowing that he just… wanted them there… wanted some… confirmation… wanted someone to tell him this was okay. He looked up again…

Lupin nodded at him. _It's all right… Ask James._

_Ask James. Well… that made sense._ He sighed. _Ask James._

_All right, Potter._

The boy had been practically devouring the book's pages, and it seemed always to be under his arm, even when he went outside. Snape found him that afternoon leaning against the oak tree facing Remus, Tonks and Fred's headstones, the book open on his lap, though he was not reading. He knew the boy heard him approach, perhaps because they were just… so used to being here together that it seemed almost inevitable. He crouched down next to the boy. Over his shoulder, he read the title of the chapter the boy had open. _Legal Issues in Adoption._ He sighed and shook his head.

"Let's ask them."

"What?"

Snape glanced at Remus' headstone.

"Let's ask your parents. I can't do this, Potter. James would be turning over in his grave. And… your mother… I can't do this unless… I need…"

What did he need? Lily's permission? Her forgiveness? James'? Both, he decided.

"I never visited her grave – their grave," he said quietly. "At first, it was because I knew the Order thought I was a Death Eater. After Voldemort returned, I told myself it was because it would compromise my position, betray the truth to him, but…" He turned to look Potter in the face. "The truth is, I was afraid. I couldn't face her – face them… I… I didn't know what to say, what to do… I'd taken them from you… taken their lives… they should have lived… should have been here for you all this time… and it was my fault they were gone, my fault you were in danger."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said simply. "I know that's not enough. I… I don't know what to do." And though there were no tears in his eyes, he felt them in his heart. "I can't do this without them, Potter. I need their forgiveness… their permission… especially James'." _I need your forgiveness._

Potter sat completely still, watching him. Snape made himself meet the boy's eyes.

"It's all right, Professor," the boy said quietly. He smiled. "I know they would approve."

"Why?"

"Because…" he waved a hand. "You've protected me my whole life. Don't you think they would know that? My mother… she wanted you to choose… to be one of the good guys. And you were. You are. If she lived… she would still be your friend… she would still love you – like a friend or like a sister, the way I love Hermione." He looked up at Snape, understanding in his green eyes. "And my dad… you protected me… protected his son. And he would trust you."

Snape shook his head. "Not bloody likely."

But the boy looked at him as if he knew something Snape did not. "Ask them, then," he said. "Let's ask them."

Snape nodded. "Yes. All right."

The boy tagged after him the rest of the day, practically never letting him out of his sight, peppering him with questions. When would they go? Could they stop by his parents' house? He wanted to show Snape the sign. Could they walk around Godric's Hollow? Would he have to wear the invisibility cloak?

This last question was the most worrying. If Voldemort had figured out that Potter would go to Godric's Hollow, had set a trap for him there, would Death Eaters and Snatchers still at large have set a trap for him there as well? The more he thought about it, the more worrying it became, so that he almost decided against it. Yet – there was no way to proceed without this, he knew it. It simply felt… right, almost inevitable. But how to assure the boy's safety?

He sent an owl to Arthur.

Snape finally managed to take temporary possession of the book only after Potter fell asleep, the book open on his legs, one hand draped on its pages, the heavy book precariously near the edge of the bed. He pulled it gently out of the boy's grasp, and the boy did not even stir. He took the heavy tome to the table and opened it to the chapter on legal issues in adoption. Toward the end, he found a discussion of the theoretical Mithraic bonding ritual. He wondered how much of the Latin the boy had deciphered. He read it through, automatically rejecting the possibility, and turned to the chapter on inheritance. Its simpler bonding would suffice to secure his estate to the boy. A civil adoption would suffice for the boy's other needs – if they proceeded with that. Unnecessary… but…

He received Arthur's answer the next morning at breakfast. "Come. Use the floo connection to Kingsley's office."

"I'm going to London," he said, holding the parchment.

"Again?"

"Yes – I'd like you to come with me, if you would."

"What are we going to do?"

"Visit my solicitor – and Kingsley."

Snape could see the boy's mind turning that over, but all he asked was "When?"

"Get your cloak."

They met in Kingsley's office first. Arthur joined them at Kingsley's conference table after the Minister instructed his secretary he was not to be disturbed.

"Now," Kingsley said, "what is it you need my help with?"

Snape hesitated, glancing sideways at Potter. The boy looked from him to Arthur and back again, waiting for Snape to say something.

"We – that is… I… need to visit Godric's Hollow." Snape stated that as matter-of-factly as he could, but noted Arthur's sudden interest. "However, Potter wishes to come with me. As Voldemort previously laid a trap for him there…"

He hesitated. _Did Kingsley and Arthur know about that? _Apparently they did. Both men were nodding. Potter must have told them about that during his testimony before the Wizengamot.

"… and given what happened earlier this week, I wish to be certain the place is safe before we go. I wondered if the Aurors…"

Arthur was shaking his head. Kingsley glanced at Arthur before responding, "If we are to see to Potter's safety, I would prefer to handle it personally. Arthur?"

"I agree," Arthur said. "Not that the Aurors aren't to be trusted, but we still haven't rooted out all the bad eggs in _any_ department, and we can't put Harry at risk."

"Of course not," Snape agreed. He realized the boy was glaring across the table at Arthur and Kingsley, and added, "Potter, what is your opinion on the matter?"

The boy was taken off guard at being consulted so suddenly, but recovered quickly. "Oh – I… Thank you, Minister, but I think it would be okay. It was only Bathilda that… you know…"

Arthur shook his head. "Please, Harry – we're not sure it's safe… we're not sure _anywhere _is safe just yet, and we haven't gotten to Godric's Hollow since just after the Ministry learned of Bathilda's death. I know it's a hindrance," he said at the look of mixed annoyance and fear on Potter's face, "but we're just being realistic, Harry. We don't actually know if it's safe. For either of you."

"So that means we can't go?" the boy asked, glancing sideways at Snape.

"Perhaps it would be better if I went alone," Snape suggested, though… he noticed Arthur's and Kingsley's confusion at that.

"No – I want to come with. Besides, if I'm not safe, you're not safe, either. They're my parents… it's my house…"

"Of course," Snape murmured at once. "Minister…"

"Kingsley."

_Why did everyone insist on first names?_

"… is there a way to secure the… the Potter residence so that… the boy… can visit? And… we need to visit the graveyard, as well."

Kingsley turned his eyes slowly from face to face – Potter's, Arthur's, Snape's and back to Potter's. "Might I ask what the purpose of your visit is? Not that it is any of my concern, of course, but it would help us determine how best to provide protection."

Snape hesitated so long in responding that Potter took the matter into his own hands.

"I want to see my house – my parents' house, I mean. I didn't have time to look, really, before, and I just… I just want to see it. And… we need to talk with my parents. I mean…" He looked sideways at Snape.

Snape took a breath and nodded. "I wish to… to visit James' and Lily's grave," he said. He closed his eyes against the pain of that, and against his discomfort. He opened them to find Arthur looking from him to the boy and back, and he could practically see Arthur's mind working.

Arthur turned to the Minister. "I'll go with," he said. "If you go to secure the locations, I'd like to go with, Kingsley. And I think we should have at least two others… Bill and Charlie, maybe, since they're both here."

The Minister swung his eyes between the three of them again and nodded slowly. Snape opened his mouth to add something then closed it again. _How to broach this…?_

"Was there something else?" Kingsley asked.

Snape cleared his throat and glanced at Arthur. He felt himself redden slightly. _Calm yourself!_ he ordered – to little effect, to judge by the racing of his heart. _I really need to practice,_ he thought, but… _why? Other than to soothe his pride?_

"My solicitor recommends that I clarify my will," he said. He noted Arthur's frown and Kingsley's blank look. Arthur shook his head in confusion.

"How does that…?"

He cleared his throat again, and pointedly did _not _look at Arthur. "I find myself… that is to say, Healer Smethwyck…" He glanced at Potter, sitting back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him. The boy nodded at him supportively. He sighed and turned back to Kingsley. "Smethwyck tells me that my heart was weakened by Nagini's venom, and… the attack… probably weakened it further" he said more firmly. "_As a precaution_, I would prefer to clarify my intentions for my estate in the event of my… early demise."

The boy's foot made contact with his and he turned his head slightly so that he could see the boy out of the corner of his eye. The boy was clenching his hands so tightly his knuckles were white. He resisted the urge to put his hand on the boy's to calm him. _All is well_ he thought at the boy. He sat up straighter and spoke more firmly.

"Potter is my stated heir." Arthur eyed him thoughtfully at that and Snape irritatedly shrugged a shoulder. "I made that provision nearly four years ago, just before Voldemort returned. However, as I said, my solicitor believes it necessary to strengthen that provision, so that there is no question as to my intentions." He took a breath. "I – that is to say, Potter and I… I would like to… invoke an inheritance bond ritual." He exhaled and looked at Arthur, trying to keep from wincing.

Arthur gasped, looking from him to Potter, and Kingsley held even more still than usual.

"Is that even possible?" Arthur asked.

Snape shrugged and glanced sideways at the boy, who was looking at Arthur calmly, with a slight smile on his face. A slow smile appeared on Arthur's face. Snape breathed more easily and tugged at his waistcoat, sitting up straighter again. However…

"I asked him to adopt me," Potter said into the silence.

Arthur gasped again and turned shocked eyes on Snape, who lowered his head to both hands and shook it. "Potter…" he growled.

"What?" the boy asked.

Arthur smiled broadly and his eyes gleamed brightly. He looked at Snape as if to say, "I _told_ you he still needs a father!" Kingsley held silent, his face still but his eyes, Snape saw, giving away the fact that he was considering the implications.

Snape looked up rather helplessly at the other two men. "I told him no, but…"

"You want to ask Lily and James," Arthur said immediately.

Snape hesitated then nodded. He shook his head. Was _everyone_ ahead of him on this? He had the strangest feeling that things were happening on two levels, two timelines – one slower that he was on, and one faster, moving ahead, preceding him, that everyone else was on. It was… disconcerting… and he wondered if it was tied, somehow, to Nagini's poison in his system or to the problems with his heart.

"We… decided that," he admitted. "But… I'm concerned about Potter's safety."

"When did you want to go, Severus?"

"Let's go now," the boy said eagerly.

"Potter!" Snape said, exasperated. "In the first place, we have an appointment with Bartley this morning. And in the second, the Minister can hardly…"

Kingsley raised a hand. "If you wish to do it this afternoon, I can make myself available. Arthur?" Arthur nodded.

Snape exhaled. "I would rather… have some time to prepare." _What was he doing? _ "Perhaps…" He could practically see the boy getting ready for him to back out. "Perhaps the day after tomorrow? All right, Potter?" The boy nodded slowly, managing to look both disappointed and relieved.

"My solicitor says… He asked me… We'll need witnesses for the legal work. I wondered, Minister, if you would officiate?"

Kingsley nodded. "I would be happy to, Severus."

"Would you be a witness for me, Mr. Weasley?" the boy asked.

Arthur smiled widely. "Of course, Harry."

That settled, they turned their discussion to how to secure the graveyard in Godric's Hollow for their visit. In an excess of caution, Kingsley did not even wish to alert the Auror's office to their trip. He and Arthur agreed they would go early to assure that it would be safe, then stand guard while Severus and Potter visited Lily and James' grave.

"Bartley, this is Potter – Harry Potter. Potter, this is my solicitor, Bartley Causidicus."

Potter shook hands with the man, who smiled at him in a paternal way that Snape found somewhat irritating.

"Mr. Causidicus… are you related to the author of…"

Bartley laughed. "No, son. Well, not directly, anyway, though we're all interrelated more or less. But it is an interesting coincidence, isn't it?"

Potter nodded and Bartley waved them to two chairs in front of his desk.

They discussed the inheritance bond, and Potter once again brought up adoption. "Civil adoption…" Snape began.

"But what about…"

"It's not necessary."

"But…"

Snape turned to Bartley for support.

"You understand, Severus, Mr. Potter… a bonding ritual such as that would likely be painful… on more than one level."

"What do you mean?" the boy asked.

"To be honest, my research does not tell me much more than that. Apparently, the experience is… either too gruesome or too personal to be described beyond that." Bartley tapped his desk with his wand. Snape winced at that.

"Are you sure you are up to that?" Bartley asked Snape.

"I'll be fine," he said, but looked at the boy.

Potter watched him anxiously. "Professor, if it would be too hard on your…"

Snape shrugged irritably. "I am not concerned about that. _I'll be fine_, Potter. More to the point, there is no need for _you_ to go through this."

The boy waved off his concern.

"Potter…"

"_Harry_."

Snape growled. _"Potter._ You've had… enough pain in your life, don't you think?" he said quietly, intently. "You don't have to do this. It is not a trivial thing."

Bartley broke in. "While the research is not specific about what kind of pain is imposed, it is very clear that it is significant." He hesitated. "I am not eager for you to go through that, Severus."

"Professor…"

"Potter…"

"_Harry_, Professor. It's Harry."

He sat awake that night, staring into the fire long after the boy had wandered, yawning, to bed.

_Who are you, Potter?_

He was _not _his father, not James – that much was clear.

He was a leader – most breathtakingly, stunningly, in his fifth year, leading Dumbledore's Army – with the result that he and his classmates had excelled in Defense Against the Dark Arts OWLs, and had come to their sixth year and Snape's tutelage unexpectedly well-prepared. Not that he had credited the boy with that, had he?

And the boy was – clearly – a true Gryffindor, no matter that the Sorting Hat had offered him Slytherin, according to Dumbledore. And what would _that_ have been like, he wondered? He shuddered at the thought of Potter being sorted into his House – not just because he would have had the care of the boy thrust on him, with all the complications that would have caused, though there _was_ that, but also because it would have been shocking, frightening, for _The Boy Who Lived_ to have had those tendencies clearly enough that they dominated his personality.

But he had not chosen Slytherin… or had not been sorted there, anyway. And, it occurred to him, perhaps it had been the last of Voldemort, the Horcrux, that the Hat had recognized, not some innate part of the boy.

No – Potter, for all his impetuousness, the one thing that he knew was that Potter was, in fact, brave… that he'd shown more courage in the face of danger and certain death than any three men Snape had ever known put together. Including Dumbledore. Including himself.

His stomach churned at the thought and he fought it into submission.

And – he'd thought the boy a mediocre wizard at best. But that was not true either, was it? True, his friends Granger and Weasley enhanced his skills – Miss Granger in particular, brilliant witch that she was. But Potter… Potter was resourceful, creative, imaginative… he learned from every source – from books, and Snape's notes – from _Sectumsempra _to _Ashwagandha, _and from watching and listening and thinking things through… The boy practically _inhaled_ learning, when he wasn't being assaulted by Snape's hatred and derision. The image of the boy reading his potions books as he sat at Snape's bed in the infirmary blended with the boy pouring over his text to make Draught of Dreamless Sleep, sounding out Latinate and High Latin, seeking to understand.

It occurred to him that Potter learned – and performed – best when he needed to help others. A cushion charm to save McGonagall from a spill, a potion for Snape, the intuitive leaps that helped him overcome Voldemort himself – or figure it out, anyway. The boy learned _to help others_, whereas he, Snape, learned for other reasons – for love of learning itself, or in self-defense, or to help or protect Potter, to serve the Order in order to protect Lily's son, to occlude and reveal in the service of protecting the boy, protecting Dumbledore, protecting his colleagues, protecting the school.

Perhaps… perhaps that was the little bit of overlap between him and Potter. He _did_ learn to help others… just _centered on _Potter, and expanding outward from there, to Dumbledore and the Order and his colleagues, the students… but with Potter at the core.

And that brought him back to it.

_He's the center of your universe, Severus. Nothing could be more clear._

_Potter… pointing him, Snape, to his true north._

But… that did not qualify him to be the boy's father.

He did not know how to be a father.

_I don't know what I'm doing, Arthur._

_Yes you do._

He needed to talk to someone. He thought of Lupin first, but Lupin would probably just mouth something at him cryptically and… he needed something more concrete, more real. Something he could be sure was not coming from his own twisted perspective. He wanted to talk to Arthur, he realized.

It suddenly occurred to him that Arthur was the only father he knew, more than in passing, the only man he had seen father a boy, other than Lucius Malfoy. He remembered Lucius' willingness – even eagerness – for his son to take the Mark – if only to curry favor with Voldemort. Remembering Draco's utter terror at his father's insistence caused his stomach to twist. He controlled himself with an effort and fought down the bile that threatened to force its way out of his stomach. _No. _He wondered whether the boy would return to Hogwarts next year. He doubted it.

Arthur. How could he…? He considered sending off a Patronus, but for some reason, he could not bring himself to attempt it, fearing… he was not sure what. He settled for the floo connection in his quarters.

"Molly," he called. "Arthur?"

Seconds passed and Molly's feet approached. "Severus? Is everything…?"

"Everything is fine, Molly. Is Arthur home?"

"It's after midnight, Sev – are you sure…?"

Arthur came into view. "What is it, Molly?" He followed her gaze to the fire. "Severus! Is Harry all right?"

"Yes – I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't realize it was so late. I'll…"

Arthur held out his hand. "It's all right, Severus. I'm up anyway. Come through – or do you want me to come there?"

Snape hesitated then said, "Coming. Give me a minute."

He warded their space and looked in on the boy, then took the floo network to the Burrow. Molly had set out tea, and she and Arthur were waiting for him. Snape hesitated when Arthur gestured him to a seat, glancing at Molly. Arthur turned to her and said, "Molly – if you don't mind…?"

She looked between the two of them and nodded, smiling at Snape. "I'll just go upstairs. Good night, Sev."

He nodded. "Molly… thank you."

Arthur planted himself on the sofa, one foot resting against the edge of the coffee table on which their tea sat. Snape hovered near the fireplace, too restless to sit.

"Harry," Arthur said.

"What?"

Arthur smiled. "It could only be about Harry, couldn't it?"

Snape sighed and sank into a chair.

"What's he done now?"

Snape looked up at the amusement in Arthur's voice. "Nothing. He… he asked me again about adopting him…"

Arthur shifted on the sofa. "And?"

"And… I said I'd consider it, Arthur, but…"

"Ah."

Snape exhaled heavily. "What am I doing, Arthur? I don't know how to be a father. And Potter, he… he deserves better…"

"All sons deserve better fathers than they have, Sev. There's no such thing as perfect."

Snape looked at Arthur doubtfully. "You and Molly seem to manage," he observed.

Arthur laughed. "Yes – manage. Just barely sometimes, I think."

"But… your sons… Ginny… they love you – and it's so clear that you love them…"

Arthur looked at him silently for a moment. "The same could be said for you and Harry."

"Yes, but…" Snape fell silent. Arthur waited him out. "What if I make a mistake?"

"We all make mistakes, Sev. We _are_ human, you know. Harry will forgive you."

Snape winced. "Well, he shouldn't," he said bitterly.

"That's not up to you."

He shook his head at that.

"He's already forgiven you, Sev… or if he's not there yet, he's getting there."

_Getting there. _ That hurt. Though – even that was more than he deserved.

"What if… what if he can't? What if I adopt him and he… he still hates me? What if it's too soon?"

Arthur folded his hands over his belt and considered it. "That boy's lived an entire lifetime in the past few years, Sev. He's been to hell and back – literally. From what Ron tells me, he died… or as near as makes no difference." He shook his head.

Snape shut his eyes against what he knew Arthur had seen in the Pensieve… what that implied.

"I can't imagine what this is like for him. But he _trusts_ you, Sev. You probably know more, understand more, about what he's been through than any of us – except _possibly_ Ron and Hermione."

He stopped, and Snape looked up to see Arthur watching him, compassion and acceptance on his face. _He didn't deserve that, either._ He sighed.

"He needs a _father_ figure, Sev, not just friends. He needs a protector – and you're the best protector he's ever had. He needs someone on the road ahead of him – not just to read contracts to make sure the Ministry isn't taking advantage of him. He needs a _confidant_, someone he can count on… someone older to talk to. Someone devoted to him. You're the best possible choice for the boy now, Severus. And he loves you – and you love him. That's as clear as the hair on Hagrid's head. That alone makes you the best choice."

"But…"

"Tell me about him."

"What?"

"Tell me about Harry. Describe him to me as if I didn't know him. Tell me about your boy, Sev."

Snape looked at him, confused. _He's not __my boy__._

"He's… he's a good boy," he said again, as he had talking to Lupin. He sat silent a moment, remembering what he'd been thinking of earlier in the evening. "He's _so smart_, Arthur. He soaks up learning like a sponge." He shook his head. "He was sitting on the sofa deciphering Latin so he could read about the inheritance bond…" He laughed and shook his head again. "He made his own Dreamless Sleep draught." He did not add that the boy still wanted Snape's draught. "And he tried to dose me with Ashwagandha root tea when I was in the infirmary. He _did _dose me." He snorted in amused recall. "He couldn't figure out the meaning of the word _libido_."

Arthur looked confused by that, but he laughed, too.

Snape sobered. "He still has nightmares. He had one just the other night. And he doesn't eat enough…" He looked up to find Arthur smiling at him. He blinked, confused.

"What?"

"You're going to make a good father for the boy, Sev."

Snape shook his head in denial. "I don't know _how_, Arthur."

"Yes you do."

He swallowed. "But…" he said, his heart beating anxiously. "… I may have only a short time to live. I _may _have as long as twenty years, but if I should die sooner… Arthur, I can't do this to him. The boy would be orphaned twice over. I… I can't do that to him. He's lost so much already."

Arthur was silent for a long while, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. "None of us know how much time we have, Severus," he said finally, and Snape's chest burned. _Fred. Arthur… I'm so sorry…_ "… but Potter will never be alone – I promise." But Snape's mind was stuck on Fred… on Remus and Nymphadora.

_Don't call me 'Nymphadora'!_

"Who's watching Remus' son?" he asked.

Arthur smiled. "Tonks' mother – Andromeda. Did you know Harry's his godfather?"

Snape's mind went blank. _Potter was… so Remus and Tonks had… when he was __seventeen__? And now, __at eighteen__, he was supposed to…? _He suddenly had the absurd thought that if Potter was the boy's godfather, and he, Snape, adopted the older boy, that would… could possibly… make him great-godfather to Remus' son. _Lupin…? _He shook his head, utterly boggled by it.

He pictured the boy bouncing a baby on his knee and chasing a child around on its toy broom, suddenly pictured the infant Potter himself zooming around a room, not ten inches off the floor, being chased by James' ankles through a picture that had Lily's love written on it… and Potter with his own children – his and Ginny Weasley's children, with Weasley-red hair or Potter's black hair… and Lily-green eyes. He wondered if he would find himself chasing some broom-riding two-year-old of Potter's around his quarters.

_Hestia and all her sons, what was he thinking?_

He rubbed his forehead with one hand and pulled at the collar of his shirt, which suddenly seemed too tight around his neck. His fingers brushed the raised scars where Nagini had bitten him. He thought of the cashmere scarf the boy and his friends had given him, mindful of his scars, of the boy sitting at his bedside, dosing him with a potion he'd made to cure his fever, of Potter ordering up breakfast, taking charge in Snape's illness.

"He'll be a good father," he said.

Then he laughed at himself. _All right, Potter,_ he thought, and looked up into Arthur's thoughtful, smiling, sad face. He took a deep breath.

"All right," he said.

Arthur's eyes warmed and he nodded. "See you tomorrow, then?" he said, getting to his feet, their tea grown cold.

Snape shook his head – twice. _What am I doing? _"Yes," he said.

* * *

That was Chapter 27 of 30. GAH! Only 3 more to go! Noooooooooo! KEEP READING.


	29. Consent

Disclaimer: Jo's world and all that except for Umberto Causidicus, High Latin spells, Mithraic Rituals and the plot... Oh, the plot! 3 3 3 Your continued feedback thrills me. Thank you.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CONSENT

They apparated directly to James and Lily's home, the place the boy had last been loved and protected by his parents, clasping hands, Snape's heart pounding in his chest. The location was seared on his very soul, his aim as certain as was the boy's, never mind that it had been nearly seventeen years since he had dared set foot in Godric's Hollow. They stood before the house, visible to them and any other wizard, but warded against Muggles. When Potter reached out his hand, a sign rose out of the wild grasses and flowers that grew behind the gate. It was inscribed with a memorial to James and Lily, and to the power of love. Witches and wizards had written in magic all over the sign, around its edges and over the inscription.

_Long Live Harry Potter._

_If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!_

_Good luck, Harry, wherever you are._

And more recently, _Thank you, Harry! _and _To the Boy Who Lived – again – thank you._

He could barely make himself look at the blasted second floor, where Lily had died… where he had found her. His heart burned. Were it not for the boy by his side, he would have let himself die of it… would have wanted to nearly as much as he had seventeen years before… maybe more. But the boy was next to him, and he could not do that to him, so he placed his hand on the boy's where it held onto the gate, and allowed the boy to lean against him for a long while.

Together, they turned to the small church and the tiny graveyard next to it, their guard pacing them at a distance, then setting themselves at each of the graveyard's four corners.

A hand touched his elbow and he turned his glittering black eyes to look down into the boy's startlingly green ones, searching the boy's face.

"It'll be okay," the boy said softly.

Black eyes held on green, so much calmer and more at peace than his own. He drew courage from the unflagging acceptance and understanding he saw there. He took a breath, still keeping eye contact, straightened his hunched shoulders, tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, and gave a sharp nod.

The boy turned to accompany him, but he drew away, shaking his head.

"I have to do this myself," he said, his voice trembling as lightly as the hand he drew across his brow...

He didn't know how long he had been standing there, in front of Lily and James' grave, while the boy waited for him to… make his peace… decide… He struggled to pull his mind out of recollection, out of the past, out of even the last few months, stuck in a whirling Pensieve of memory, reliving it. But he did not want to… _would not_ let himself escape, despite the painful constricting of his heart. He had to do this… for the boy… for _his _boy, maybe. For their future. Whether he lived or died, he had to do this. And if it hurt, if it killed him – well, he deserved that, had earned it, so long ago. He straightened his waistcoat again and continued.

"Lily… I wish you'd been here to see him…" he whispered. "You'd be so proud. He's such a good boy… such a brave…" His throat tightened and tears ran down his face again. _Oh Merlin, what the boy had been through!_

"He's such a brave soul," he managed to choke out. "I'm so proud of him."

_Where had that come from?_ Not that it wasn't true. The boy had much to be proud of.

But – that wasn't his nature, was it? He'd never been, really, as confident as Lily had been, the moment she'd gotten her letter, the letter that proved it was all true, what nine and ten year old Snape had been telling her. And he'd never _assumed _like his father had, _never_ took it for granted. Not that James had been wrong for taking it for granted.

"He's a _good man_," Snape said. "James…" He shook his head. "Your son… I'd do anything…" and his voice broke again and his chest hurt, but he did not raise his hand against the pain, knowing the boy would be watching. "I promise… if you allow it… if _he_ allows it, I would do anything… I would give my life…"

Then he saw them – as he saw Lupin leaning on his tombstone, just like that. James and Lily, their arms around each other, watching him. He nearly died of it – not their togetherness, just the… difference of it. They appeared as they had in Potter's memories, not his; as father and mother rather than as teenaged classmates. He could barely look at them, fearing judgment and condemnation, meriting it… but he had to do this. For Potter… for the boy… their boy.

"I promise… I promise I'll take care of him… I promise I'll protect him." _No – he could not promise that. _"I promise I'll try," he corrected. "I promise I'll be here for him, as long as he needs me, as long as I can, as long as I'm alive. I promise I'll treat him as if he is my own… as if he is yours, Lily. James… I promise I'll be fair… I'll listen… I'll try to see him for himself. I promise… if you let me… if he wants it… I'd do anything…"

And he knew it was for _Potter, _more than for Lily, and he looked to her for forgiveness for that, for loving her son, now, more than her… looked to James for forgiveness for _seeing _his son more clearly than he had ever seen James himself.

They nodded at him, James shaking his head ruefully, Lily smiling gently. He knew it was not, could not be, real… but it comforted him nonetheless.

"I don't ask forgiveness," he said. "I just ask your… blessing. He's _your_ boy. I have no right…"

But _Potter did _have the right… to anything Snape could give. That thought calmed him, though he still felt conflicted.

_Why?_

Because… _he wanted this_, he realized. And somehow, that felt wrong… he felt unworthy… it felt indulgent. How could he be sure it was _for the boy_, if he, himself, wanted it?

A soft footfall warned him of the boy's approach. He thought for a moment to wipe his face, hide his tears, but that movement would as much as tell the boy what would otherwise be evident on his face anyway… so he let himself stand there, unguarded, regardless of what the boy would see. The boy came to stand next to him, and looked at his parents' grave.

He thought his heart would surely break from it then, from his guilt and remorse, from his loss and his overwhelming need to protect the boy, to see that he was, would ever be, _safe… safe… safe…_ From not daring, not coming close to dare, that he and the boy…

He did not allow himself to grab at his chest, despite the fact that he thought he might die from it.

How long they stood there, he did not know – Lily and James, he and Potter. A tear fell from his face to his hands, clasped in front of him. Potter reached out a hand and wiped it off, turned to look at him, tears in his own Lily-green eyes, and Snape could not help it. His arm rose involuntarily to pull the boy to him, to comfort him. The boy came willingly, almost desperately, and clung to him, sobbing, releasing Snape's own tears. He held him as tightly, as reassuringly as he could, whispering "Shh… It's all right… It's all right, Potter. It's going to be all right…"

And after a long, long while, after he could work it from his heart up his gullet, into his mind and out his mouth, form his heart and his lips around it, he murmured into the boy's dark hair, "All right. All right, Potter… All right… It's all right," and did not notice that James and Lily had faded into the air.

At lunch the next day, Snape tented his fingers, looking at the boy across from him, trying to wrap his mind around it. "If we do this, Potter…" He rolled his eyes at the boy's sudden, brilliant smile. "_If _we do this, we'll still need to do the inheritance bond as well."

"Why?"

"A civil adoption will not prevent questions…"

"_Civil_ adoption? Why?"

"It is not necessary to…"

"But I _want_ to," the boy protested.

Snape growled at him. The boy laughed. Snape frowned. "What?"

"You do that a lot," the boy said. "You used to hiss at me… but now you growl instead. I just think it's funny. You used to be a Slytherin snake and now you're a Gryffindor lion… so you growl." He grinned.

Caught completely off guard, Snape laughed uncomfortably and frowned. _What?_

"I like it," the boy said. "I like the sound of it… it's like… like a friendly lion."

_What?_

He laughed weakly and raised a hand to his forehead. His heart thumped, but it did not hurt.

"_Potter_," he… growled. The boy laughed at him, then sobered.

"It's _Harry… _Dad."

Snape went still and this time the irregular thumping of his heart did hurt. "I am not your father… _yet_… Potter. We have not yet determined… we have not yet decided…"

"_I _have," the boy said defiantly. "Is that why you don't want to do the adoption bond? Because you don't really want to? Because you don't really want…"

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy and his heart thumped more painfully. _Don't do this, Potter. _His chest rose and fell rapidly and he stared at the boy then closed his eyes against the hope in the boy's eyes, his pleading.

_Merlin and all the gods…_ He shook his head… and it hit him again, how much he _did_ want it… but… _Gods, could he do this?_ What if the boy only _thought_ he wanted it? What if, when it came down to it, he, Snape, wanted it, but in his heart the boy did not? An inheritance bond was… simple… nearly risk-free… but an adoption bond…

"You have to _mean _it, Potter," he said, opening his eyes. His heat beat at a frantic rhythm. _Oh gods, this could hurt. _"You have to mean it." He realized he was… almost pleading.

The boy looked at him a long moment. "I do, Profess… _Dad._"

Snape growled.

"Trust me."

_Yes… well… that would rather be the point, wouldn't it?_

He stared at the boy, wishing he knew… but refusing to intrude on his mind. It must have shown, or perhaps the boy saw it in his open mind, because the boy leaned forward across the table and repeated, "Trust me."

He inhaled a slow breath, and, just as slowly, nodded.

"Can I tell… can I tell Ron and Hermione… and Ginny?"

Snape gazed at him, a protest dying on his lips before it was formed. _Well… it would have to be public eventually… at least the boy's friends would have to know. And Minerva. And no doubt Hagrid… and Kingsley of course… and Bartley… and he could hardly expect, could hardly ask the boy to keep it secret… and why should he? _he realized. He shook his head. _What am I doing?_ He nearly laughed at himself. _Severus, what in bloody hell are you doing?_

However, the boy was watching, waiting for his answer. _In for a feather, in for a hippogriff, _he realized.

"Yes." _What am I doing? _"How would you like to do that?"

"Could I have them over?" the boy asked eagerly. "And Neville, too?"

Snape looked around his quarters – their quarters – imagining it overrun with teenagers. Then he _did _laugh. _In for a feather…_ "Certainly, if you wish. When did you…?"

"Saturday. Saturday night. Then Ron can come."

"Of course."

Snape wondered if he could absent himself for that, but realized first that he was not sure how he felt about his quarters being invaded without his supervision, and second… _what was the point?_ He'd have to face the boy's friends, their potential disapproval, eventually. Better now than… at the ritual… or worse, afterward. Again picturing a group of students – teenagers, anyway – in his quarters, he snorted. _Well, that would be… different._

And that brought up the fact that they had not told _anyone_ yet – not Arthur or Kingsley or Minerva. At least they knew the boy had proposed it… but not that Snape had agreed. His stomach twisted at the thought of those conversations, but strangely, his chest did not hurt.

Arthur first, he decided. Then McGonagall. Arthur could let Kingsley know for him, perhaps. And he would send a letter to Bartley…

"Minerva… if Potter and I could have a moment of your time?" Snape asked.

The Headmistress looked from him to the boy and back and her eyes gleamed expectantly. "Certainly, Severus. Come on up to my quarters…"

Snape thought of the portraits lining the Headmistress' walls and balked. "If you don't mind, Headmistress, I would prefer to have the discussion in… in our quarters." He looked sideways at the boy, who nodded in agreement.

Minerva nodded. "I'll meet you there directly after I speak with Filch."

Snape paced his study nervously. Potter watched him, his eyes glinting in amusement. "Potter," he growled.

"It'll be all right… Dad."

Snape growled again, resisting the urge to snap at the boy. "Potter, if you refer to me that way in front of the Headmistress – or anyone else – I shall hex your lips shut. Do you understand me?"

The boy laughed.

"I mean it, you insolent boy," he said without heat, still pacing. The boy grinned but nodded his agreement. Snape's stomach relaxed its hold minutely.

Minerva's knock startled him. _Merlin, what was the matter with him? _Potter jumped from his chair and sped to the door almost before Snape turned from his pacing near the fireplace.

"Come in, Professor," the boy said, eagerness apparent in his tone.

_Calm yourself… control your emotions, _Snape thought at him automatically… and tried to follow those instructions himself.

"Minerva," he nodded with a calm he did not feel. He saw her take in the furnishings, including the tartan-upholstered chairs by the fireplace, the boy's Order of Merlin, his broom leaning against the bookcase near the door, two sets of books on the table, and Potter's room, visible through its open door. She did not seem surprised by his nearly completely barren shelves. She turned from her survey of their quarters and smiled at him warmly.

"I like what you've done with the place, Severus."

"Thank you," he murmured after a moment. "Let's sit here, shall we?" he said, motioning to the chairs and sofa in front of the fireplace. Minerva took a chair. Potter, trailing after her, waited until Snape sat on the other chair, and took a seat on the sofa so close to Snape that their knees almost touched. Minerva noticed, her eyes sparkling. Snape felt unaccountably calmed by the boy at his side – their united front, perhaps, strengthening his resolve. He straightened his shoulders.

"We – that is, Potter and I – wanted to let you know that we have decided…" He hesitated, then looked McGonagall in the eyes. "I have decided to adopt him," he said, suddenly firmer. He glanced at the boy. Potter grinned at him and turned to McGonagall, his eyes gleaming in satisfaction. Snape turned to Minerva, whose eyes lit with an even warmer smile as she watched them.

"As you recall, Minerva, I told you that Potter…"

"It's _Harry, _D – Professor."

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy, who winced, then smiled and shrugged apologetically.

"… had requested that I adopt him, and I have, after much consideration, agreed," he finished, somewhat awkwardly, he thought.

"Does this have anything to do with your visit to Godric's Hollow?" Minerva asked unexpectedly.

_What? How did she…? _He turned to look questioningly at Potter, who ducked his head and scratched at his scar. _Don't pull that on me, cheeky boy_ he thought, narrowing his eyes at the boy. He turned back to Minerva.

"Yes… I did not want to proceed without… that is, I wished to… to visit Lily and James' graves."

Minerva nodded in comprehension and approval.

Snape wondered why he had thought this would be difficult. "In any case," he continued, "as we have decided to proceed, I wondered if you are still willing to serve as my – our – one of our witnesses."

"Of course, Severus," she said. "That is, if you are in agreement, Mr. Potter?" she asked, turning to the boy.

"Oh – yes, Professor," he said, "that is… if it's okay with you."

"Of course, Mr. Potter," Minerva said tremulously.

"It's _Harry_," he said.

"Harry," she corrected.

He turned to look at Snape accusingly. Snape lifted one eyebrow at him.

"When did you think to have the ceremony?"

Snape's mind went blank. _When?_ He felt the boy's eyes on him. "I… we hadn't discussed a… we hadn't discussed when," he acknowledged, turning back to the boy, an eyebrow raised in question, this time.

The boy swallowed, but just looked back at him, waiting.

He sorted through the possibilities rapidly. "We could wait until spring…" He looked at Potter and realized the boy would never agree to that. He shook his head. The boy's next birthday was even further away. He rejected consideration of his own birthday, his shoulders twitching at the very thought. Birthdays had never been cause for celebration in his life, other than the blessed day he received his letter from Hogwarts and the day he attained his majority and never needed to set foot in his parents' house at Spinner's End again – until he inherited it.

"Christmas?" he asked.

Potter looked positively alarmed at that, for some reason.

"Thanksgiving?"

The boy looked reluctant.

"Well, when did you have in mind, you silly boy?" he demanded.

"I thought we should do it before school starts," Potter said, looking at Snape as if he expected Snape to utterly reject the suggestion. Perversely, that caused him to consider the boy's suggestion seriously.

"And… what would be your rationale for that?" he asked, as if they were discussing potions.

"Oh – well…" The boy thought it through. "If we start the year that way, if we get it done before then… Hermione and Ginny and Neville… and Professor McGonagall and Hagrid… they would all already know, and it wouldn't be such a… such a…"

"… Shock?" he suggested wryly, his lips twitching. His eyes flicked to Minerva's and he saw amusement on her face as well.

"Yeah," the boy said, scratching his scar again.

"Though… if we let your classmates know beforehand, it would also give them time to adjust to the idea before we proceed," he suggested.

Potter slashed a hand at the air in rejection of that possibility. "No," he said. "First of all, it's no one's business but mine and yours," he began. "I won't have anyone question it."

"They will anyway, Potter."

"_Harry_, Dad," the boy said. Snape hardly flinched, his eyes on the boy. Minerva made a sound, but her face revealed nothing by the time he flicked his eyes to her.

"And they can question it _after_ we do it, then," Potter said.

"In that case, what does it matter when?"

"I want to do it. I… I just… I just…"

And the boy looked him in the eyes, pleadingly, and drew Snape in. _I just want to __belong__ to somebody… belong somewhere… _the boy thought at him. _I just… I don't want to be an orphan anymore. Please…_

Snape could practically feel the boy's need as if it were his own… to belong… He understood that.

_Potter…_

"Please," the boy said aloud.

He looked the boy in the eyes and nodded slowly, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. "As you wish," he said.

He had practically forgotten that Minerva was in the room, and looked up to find her watching them, a bemused smile on her lips. "Well," she said, standing up, "it seems you hardly need anyone else's consent, Severus, Po… _Harry_."

The boy glared up at Snape again at McGonagall's use of his given name. Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy until the boy relented.

Saturday, Neville was at the school by lunchtime, wanting to consult with Pomona Sprout about his advanced studies. The two herbologists carried on such an obscure discussion at lunch that Trelawney took her meal up to her rooms in the North Tower, though Snape and Firenze listened with interest, Snape's mind automatically sorting through relevant potions.

When Neville looked hesitant about whether to follow Sprout or Potter after lunch, Potter waved him off, laughing. "Clearly you have things to discuss with Professor Sprout, Neville. Just… just be back by five, will you?" He looked suddenly anxious, and Snape stifled the urge to reach out to him in reassurance.

Neville knocked at barely half past three, and he and the boy went off to wander the castle – or so Snape thought until they returned laden with butterbeer and firewhiskey just as Snape was clearing his desk of paperwork.

"We went to the Hogshead," Potter said, "through the Room of Requirement."

Snape stifled his alarm, but flicked his eyes to Neville's.

"We stayed in Aberforth's quarters, Severus," the boy said.

He frowned at them anyway, nodded, and then confiscated the stronger spirits. "I'll not have a group of drunken teenagers in my quarters, Potter," he said, but relented when the boy pulled him aside to ask permission for a single, celebratory drink after dinner.

"And… I told Aberforth. I hope that's okay," the boy said, looking anxious.

Snape nodded. He'd intended to tell the barkeep himself, but it was as much Potter's prerogative as his. "However… the next time you leave the school grounds, let me know, will you?" he said, making it both a request and an order.

The boy's eyes sparkled. "Sure – _Dad_."

Snape took a swipe at the back of his head with the sheaf of papers in his hand when the boy turned away, grinning.

The Weasleys and Granger arrived shortly before five, taking the floo network directly to their hearth rather than the Room of Requirement this time. Ron came first. Neville and Potter were in the lab, doing who-knew-what – not that Snape didn't trust them.

"Profess… Severus," Ron said when he emerged from the flames.

Snape nodded at him from his desk, where he was reading. "Ron…" The boy turned to help Miss Granger out next, followed by his sister.

Granger and Miss Weasley looked around his quarters – _their _quarters – appraisingly. Miss Weasley's gaze was coolly assessing, Miss Granger's rather warmer. "Professor! It's so good of you to let us come visit!" she greeted him.

"Of course, Miss Granger… Miss Weasley," he nodded. "You have only to ask…" He shook his head. _What was he saying?_

Their voices called Potter and Neville out of the lab, and between the greetings and Potter showing them around, they all began to get comfortable. Miss Weasley came to investigate the Order of Merlin on the shelf beside his desk. She shook her head, but her eyes lit on his merrily. "Bleeding idiots, aren't they – the Ministry?" she asked quietly.

"Indeed," he murmured.

"Harry's got yours in his room," she observed.

He shrugged and nodded. _That was evident, wasn't it?_

She smiled at him warmly then, and… that was that. _One down,_ he thought, realizing he had been holding his breath and feeling rather shaky until that approval, tacit as it was. His face twitched in a swift smile.

It was a bit anticlimactic, actually. As they sat over the end of their dinner, Potter caught his eye and Snape nodded. _Ready. _Potter took a breath and his friends went quiet, almost as if they had been waiting for it.

"The… the professor and I have something to tell you," he began.

Snape's eyes flicked to Granger's. She was smiling at him. Neville's eyes were on Potter's, and Ron's shifted between Potter and Snape. Ginny's – he'd started thinking in first names at dinner, just to keep everything straight – rested calmly on Potter's face as she sat at his side.

"We've decided…" Potter stopped and started again, and Snape felt a momentary satisfaction in the boy's stumbling approach, mimicking his with Minerva. His eyes glittered at the boy, who glared at him, then straightened up in his chair.

"I asked him to adopt me," he said in a firmer voice, "and he agreed."

Granger yelped, "Oh, Harry!" and threw her arms around the boy. He returned the girl's hug then untangled himself, his eyes on Ron's across the table from him. The boy snorted, but nodded in wry acceptance.

"I knew it wasn't safe to leave you here with him," he said. "You've gone barmy. What'd he do – hex you?" but he laughed as he said it, flicking his eyes to Snape and shrugging.

"Ron!" Granger said in exasperation.

"Idiot," his sister said matter-of-factly, reaching for a pumpkin pasty.

Neville looked from Potter to Snape. "I think it's brilliant," he said quietly. Snape cocked his head at him, wondering why on earth the boy would have concluded that. But he met the boy's eyes and saw that the boy had utterly accepted Snape's changed status, no longer the villain… one of the good guys. He felt surprisingly grateful at that. He snorted softly, closed his eyes a moment, and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, Neville gave him a warm half smile.

"Weird," Ron said.

They talked about the boy's need for witnesses, then, the fact that he had already asked Arthur ruling out either of the Weasleys, and for some reason, Granger as well. It took a moment for Snape to figure that out; then he realized that the teens were assuming Ron and Granger… He eyed them speculatively, appreciating the way they balanced each other's personalities, much like Arthur and Molly. He could see how Ron would be good for the girl… and visa versa.

He suddenly realized that Potter was working his way toward telling them he had asked Neville to be his second witness, giving his rationale as he went along so that his closest friends would not be surprised or offended at not being asked. He settled back to watch the boy manage it, which he did quite skillfully, he admitted, all four of his friends endorsing his choice.

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_That was Chapter 28 of 30. Continuing..._


	30. Sic Eligere

**Disclaimer: **Jo's - all of it, except for the High Latin spells, Mithraic Rituals, the plot... the love that went into it... If you don't recognize it as hers, it's mine. In any case... here we go. Let me know... please.

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

_SIC ELIGERE_

"This doesn't look familiar… other than this part," the boy said late the next morning, pointing.

Snape pulled the book over in front of him, turning it so that they both could see the text, leaving the translation text at the boy's other elbow. The middle part read _Manu mea est tuum… Manu tua meum est… Eligere. _He'd refreshed his own memory of the rest when he pulled the book from the boy's lap the other night. "It's High Latin," he said. "Most of what we use for daily spells, charms and rituals is Latinate… occasionally Greek, Aramaic… even English."

"What's High Latin?"

Snape studied the boy a moment before responding. "High Latin is old Latin. The Latinate we use for everyday spells is subject to change as we change, as our knowledge changes. We make it up, to an extent, as we need it for new words, concepts, discoveries. High Latin is… static, unchanging. There is no 'slang', for example, in High Latin, no evolution of terms or street usage. In some ways, that makes its meaning very, very clear… provided one understands that it hearkens back to and calls upon… very old, very ancient magic."

Potter was listening in apparent fascination. "So… that means… a ritual done in High Latin is…"

"More powerful, yes. Mithraic rituals are more powerful yet."

The boy gulped.

Snape tilted his head, watching the boy across the table. "I told you, we don't have to do this, Potter."

"_Harry_," the boy said absently.

Snape sighed. "A civil adoption… the inheritance bond…"

"No. I think we should do this," the boy interrupted quickly.

Snape reached across to put a finger under the boy's chin, lifting his face to meet his eyes. "It does not matter to me," he said softly.

"It matters to me."

"As you wish… but…"

"It'll be okay."

Snape shook his head dubiously, then looked back at the book.

"Can you read this?"

"I'm working it out."

"Do you want help?"

"No… I can do it."

"I know."

"Professor...?"

He looked up from his desk to where the boy lay before the fire, reading. "What is it?"

"Is this the only kind of ritual? Adoption ritual, I mean? Are there other ways to do it? Other rituals like it?"

He put down his quill and twined his hands, considering the boy's question. "No, it's not the only way to do it. There are others – of course. Every culture and people has its own adoption rituals, though not, perhaps, utilizing a bonding spell, per se. Native American wizards perform a bonding ritual that involves an exchange of blood. 'My blood is yours; your blood is mine.' That makes a certain intuitive sense to me, though perhaps some would find it primitive. Other rituals involve the sharing of food, or eating from each other's plate – 'What's mine is yours; what's yours is mine, even unto the things that give me life.' Why do you ask?"

"Can we design our own ritual?"

Snape looked at the boy curiously. "Of course. There is a certain form that must be honored, but beyond that, we may do as we wish… What did you have in mind?"

They worked it out together, each of them contributing, in consultation with Kingsley – who insisted on particular protocol to make absolutely sure there would be no questions, and Bartley – who assured the legality of the procedure. They should each have two unrelated witnesses; the ritual should be translated to English from the Latin so that both formal and informal witnesses could attest to the vow. They should use Veritaserum to publicly demonstrate their honest intent, Snape thought. Kingsley and Bartley agreed, though Bartley again expressed concern about the strain on Snape's heart. Snape waved that off.

He found himself enjoying the creation of the ritual, particularly the Latin, which he had always considered beautiful, poetic, lyrical. He found Potter copying it carefully from their bits of parchment into his journal, mouthing the High Latin phrases as he wrote. He watched the boy, shaking his head in wonder, so focused he was unaware of Snape's scrutiny. While his chest tightened, it did not really hurt.

Both of them had nightmares the night Potter finally deciphered the core of the bonding ritual, though Snape himself had read it earlier. He watched as the boy realized what the ritual would involve… the likely source of the pain of which Bartley had warned.

"We _don't_ have to do this," he said intently.

"No – I want to… don't you?" Potter asked, though his face was pale.

"Potter…"

"It's _Harry_, Dad."

Snape sighed. "_Not yet_, Potter. But… whatever you wish."

"Yeah, but… do _you_ want to do it?"

Snape looked him in the eyes, opening his mind to let the boy see his certainty, his willingness. "Yes."

He woke to Potter's screams that night and raced to the boy's room to shake him awake. He reassured him, walked him through a calming meditation, dosed him with his Draught of Dreamless Sleep, which the boy still preferred, and sat at his side until the boy fell asleep. Then he took the boy's potion to his own room to substitute for the vial he had given the boy, but did not take it, wanting to be alert to the boy's need. Later, he woke sweating and tossing in his own nightmares, took the potion the boy had made - lighter and sweeter than his own, and slept the rest of the night in peace.

The lone voice of dissent was Poppy, whose eyes widened in alarm when he mentioned it, deliberately casual, when she demanded he see her for a checkup on Friday.

"Severus! I forbid it!"

"What?" he had practically snarled, his tone dangerous.

Though she backed up, she did not back down. "_Your heart_ cannot take that kind of strain! You need to _rest, _Severus! _What_ are you _thinking_?"

He looked at her calmly. "I am _thinking_ about Potter, Poppy."

She huffed at that, but also softened. "I know you are, Sev, but…"

"I'll be alright."

"Severus…"

"_Poppy_," he had warned.

She sighed, shook her head, patted his arm, and consulted with Smethwyck, sending Kreacher to their quarters later that day with a slightly altered potion, which he took without comment.

They chose the Burrow for the ritual, agreeing they both felt safe there, amidst the extended Weasley clan. Molly and Arthur seemed relieved at that, though Snape thought it prudent to warn them that the ritual might be… grueling… for onlookers as well as for him and Potter. Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and said, "I understand, Sev… but I assure you, Molly and I…"

Snape was not sure the man understood, and was frustrated when Arthur waved off his explanations. He insisted, then, that Arthur read over their proposed ritual. The man's eyes filled with tears as he read, and he shook his head. Snape thought he was going to protest, but instead, the man patted his arm and said, "It's so clear you love the boy, Severus. I'm glad he's got you. We'll be there – for both of you."

Ron and Hermione were not as accepting. Snape understood. They had been with the boy throughout the past, extraordinarily difficult year. They not only stood by his side, they shared his danger, as well as dangers of their own. The three shared an unbreakable bond, stronger than any he and the boy could create, and they wanted to protect him. Snape not only understood that, he wanted it: the boy's friends should be with him, to take him through the most harrowing part of the ritual… and to assure that he, Snape, was doing the right thing. He wanted it for himself as much as for the boy, and he nodded at their expressions of concern. He proposed an additional step.

_I promise… _he wanted to say. But – what could he promise? That the boy would not be hurt? He could not promise that. All he had to give was that he cared… that he would take care of the boy _afterward_… assuming he made it through the ritual. He was not quite as blasé about it as he had pretended to be with Poppy.

And what if he did _not_ make it, he wondered. That was hardly fair to the boy… to risk that. He would just _have to_ make it, he decided, and redoubled his attention to taking the potion Smethwyck sent him.

Potter was to spend the day and night before the ceremony at the Burrow. He was reluctant to part from Snape. They had returned to their quarters after breakfast, and he had delayed his departure for better than a half hour on one pretext or another. After his third return to his room, Snape sat him down on the sofa, taking up the chair next to him, leaning his elbows on his knees, hands clasped lightly between them.

"Second thoughts, Potter?" he asked quietly, looking at the boy intently. His heart thumped in his chest, but… _I just want him to be sure. For himself…_ "It's all right to change your mind," he said. "We can do the inheritance bond…"

The boy shook his head and looked at him, his green eyes searching Snape's face.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"I just… I don't want _you_ to change your mind," he said, tears springing to his eyes.

Snape almost laughed at that. He shook his head, his eyes glittering. "I won't change my mind, Potter. But… _it's all right if you do_. Do you understand me, boy?" he said in a low growl. "Don't do this unless you want to. Listen to your friends. And… it will be all right, either way. I promise." He held his mind open, willing the boy to see the truth of that. "Whatever you need, Potter."

"Harry."

He put his hand out to help the boy up from the sofa, but Potter grabbed it and held on tightly, tugging slightly. Snape followed the implied demand, and shifted to sit next to the boy. Potter hesitated a moment, then leaned his shoulder against Snape's. "I just… I just want you to be okay with it," the boy said shakily.

Snape put a hand under the boy's chin and lifted it so he could look him in the eyes. "I'm okay with it, Potter," he said. "Now come on – your friends are waiting to talk you out of it." He smiled down at the boy. "It will be all right," he promised. "Either way." He pulled the boy to his feet.

Though he really should not have, in light of the purpose of this day apart, he said the protection spell – on Potter himself, this time, before he released the boy to head to the fireplace, the dragonhide duffle Hagrid had given him stuffed with things he would need, including a fresh vial of Draught of Dreamless Sleep, just in case.

_"Ut custodiante Abeona in exitum, et custodiante in reditum Adeona," _he'd murmured.

The boy leaned into Snape's hand on his forehead, and Snape had to fend off the impulse to put his arm around the boy. Instead, he had waited a moment, pulled his hand away from the boy's head, straightened the boy's collar and nodded sharply. "The Burrow," he said.

The boy nodded wordlessly, turned, and stepped into the fireplace, a handful of green dust clenched in his fist. "The Burrow," he said, keeping his eyes on Snape's as the fire flashed green and he sped away.

Snape sighed, a smile softening his angular features, had anyone been there to see. He shook his head, and went to his room to gather some of his own things before grabbing his cloak and heading out of the school, to Hogsmeade.

He walked into town without hurrying, each step reminding him of pacing the path with Potter, or walking to the town to ponder his missteps, to talk with Aberforth… He remembered meeting Potter at the gate with Tonks, two years prior, when Potter and Draco Malfoy had gotten into an altercation on the train that delayed Potter's arrival. He remembered taunting Tonks about the change in her Patronus, and decided he owed her another drink – and an apology… and Lupin, too. He pulled his mind back to Potter, which led to James, and then to Arthur.

_Why am I doing this?_ he demanded of himself. As if in answer, his urge to protect the boy surged within him. He wished he had the coin he'd spelled to connect them – but that, again, would violate the purpose of their day apart, and he truly did want the boy to think it through, hear from his friends all the reasons he should not do this, so that he could be perfectly sure, either way, on the morrow. He smiled. He trusted that Ron, at least, would be vigorous in his duty to dissuade the boy, where Neville and Arthur and Granger would, quite possibly, not be.

Rosmerta called to him from the doorway of the Three Broomsticks, and he stopped a moment. _Just… cooperate_, he told himself. _Just surrender. Just go with the flow of it._ He wanted it to flow. He wanted to stop fighting it, for once, to _let _something be, rather than _making_ it be. Rosmerta patted his cheek without demanding he come in. He allowed it without flinching, smiled at her, wished her a good day, and turned to walk up the street, leaving her looking after him rather bemusedly.

Aberforth greeted him at the door to the Hogs Head, opening it for him, though that was unnecessary as his cleansing ritual would take place in the morning, not today. Still, he felt that as an invocation, as well… a bit of pre-ritual, perhaps. He let it flow around him, bearing him with it.

They went up the stairs to Aberforth's private quarters, and the older man set tea to boiling over the fire, and set the table for three with tea cups, honey, milk and biscuits. Snape put down his bag and waited for Aberforth to gesture him to a place at the table. They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Snape was already sinking into the silence he would practice tomorrow until the ritual, Aberforth respecting his introspective mood. The bell over the door downstairs tinkled and Aberforth went down to lock it and escort Minerva up the stairs.

"Severus," she greeted him warmly as she removed her cloak and turned it over to the waiting Aberforth. She patted him on the shoulder and took up the seat next to him.

"Thank you for coming, Minerva," he said.

"Not at all," she said, smiling at him with something between warmth and amusement.

Aberforth sat himself down across from Snape. "So," he said, "you've come to your senses, have you?"

"Or lost them," Snape said, shaking his head ruefully. "That boy unsettles me more than anything or anyone in my life ever has."

Minerva laughed warmly. "He does have that effect, doesn't he? Not his fault though, poor boy."

"Indeed," Snape said. "In any case… I'd like to go over tomorrow's ritual with you both."

"And – I understand we're to try to talk you out of it, or some such nonsense," Aberforth growled, shaking his head in disagreement with that duty.

"It is more important that Potter be talked out of it. His insistence is unreasonable. It's not necessary. " He stopped. He sounded peevish… and that was not necessary either. "And – he's not thinking this through." Snape shook his head. "I've tried to talk to him, but…"

He remembered trying… and then Potter turning those green, pleading eyes on him. He snorted. _Unfair, Potter._

"Did you, now?" Aberforth asked with a low laugh. "I imagine the sternest among us would have difficulty denying the boy – even if we weren't more'n halfway there ourselves." He eyed Snape with those damned, clear Dumbledore eyes. "You love the boy, Severus. Admit it."

Snape looked down at his tea. _No honey or milk yet. He should remedy that before the tea grew cold._ He felt Minerva's hand on his arm and looked up. She was smiling at him, her eyes bright with something like tears.

"I thought you were supposed to be talking me out of this," he muttered to her half-heartedly.

"Out of something, anyway," Aberforth said.

"What does Dumbledore think?" he asked Minerva suddenly. _Why am I thinking of that?_

"Does it matter?"

He thought about it. _Did _it matter? Why should it? He twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. But… _Just go with it, Severus._ He sighed.

"I don't know," he admitted. "It used to matter. Dumbledore… he used to be…" This was… confusing… new… confusing… "He used to be… the way I determined right and wrong, I think… Would he approve…"

That night on the hill, the wind whipping around them, Dumbledore creating a bubble of calm so that Snape could choke out his guilt and his sin, came back to him.

"_You disgust me…_"

There was a time when that could make his soul quake, make his stomach curdle in shame and self-hatred and uncertainty. It had been years – _years_ – before he could look Dumbledore in the eyes without feeling that shame. And years more before he could look back with calm, with anything like confidence. And that was when he had trusted the man, before it all started to fade, before his awareness of the flaws in Dumbledore's protection of the boy… before Potter showed up at school and shook him to the core – his mother's green eyes, his father's black hair, but still undeniably himself – and began to wrap himself around Snape's stubborn heart.

_How had that happened? How had he let that happen?_

He remembered the boy's first day in Potions class… how he'd tried to provoke the boy, how he wanted to have a reason to hate him… _him_, in particular, not just James' and Lily's son… how he'd made the mistake of pulling a stool up across from the boy to grill him all the more intently, only to find himself practically needing a shield charm to protect himself from the force of his own reaction to the boy… so unlike either of his parents…

Was he lost even then? He shut his eyes against it, but that just let other memories in – his eyes drawn again and again to the boy in the Great Hall at meal times; the boy sitting in silence during detentions, bent over boxes of detention cards or scratching out lines on a roll of parchment, Snape's awareness of him almost painful; how he practically navigated the castle with an awareness of Potter's whereabouts, Potter's schedule, Potter's achievements and misdeeds, Potter's friends, plotting a Marauder's Map of the castle grounds in his own head with a single, moving dot labeled _Harry Potter._

And his terror every bloody time something went wrong… and his grudging admiration for the way the boy stood up to him… and how he'd been wrong every time he had judged the boy weak or dishonest or arrogant … and how, if he had to die, he wanted it to be because he'd kept Potter – more than anyone else, Potter – _safe_.

He looked up to find McGonagall and Aberforth watching him. _Had there been a question?_

"Does it matter what my brother thinks, Severus?" Aberforth asked – without heat, without anger, without the usual snide tone in his voice when he talked of his brother.

Snape inhaled and shook his head slightly. "No." He sat a moment in silence then added. "It stopped mattering long ago. About this, anyway. It's about Potter. It was always about Potter." _Be honest, Sev. _"Almost always."

It had been about Lily, once. But that stopped the day the boy showed up at school… if not before, after that encounter in the store when the boy was seven, or after watching the boy abused when he was ten. Somewhere in there, it had shifted, until now, Potter filled his awareness so much so that there was barely room for Lily… and he barely even missed her, the space in his heart given over to Potter… having a nightmare, laughing as Snape splashed him with soap suds, sounding out Latin laying on the rug in front of Snape's fireplace, walking into the forest to his death, tapping the Elder Wand against his knee sitting at Fred and Remus and Tonks' gravesides… Challenging Snape in his own study, lobbing a bottle of ink at his turned back…

He laughed.

And it rolled over him again – as if he needed the confirmation – just how much the boy had wrapped himself around his heart. He looked up at Aberforth and Minerva, tears in his eyes but a smile on his face. "I do. Love him, I mean…"

Aberforth's snort ended in a laugh, and Minerva murmured, "Oh, Sev… of course you do!" patting his arm.

"Better drink that tea," Aberforth said, and he flicked it warm again with a wave of his wand. "Now – what about that paperwork?"

He gave Minerva, as his first witness, a copy of his will, witnessed by Arthur and Kingsley the day before. He gave them copies of the paperwork attesting to his willingness to adopt Potter, his signature and Bartley's followed by Potter's own familiar scrawl. Minerva and Arthur would have to sign it the next day, assuming the ceremony turned out that way. He gave them another set to confirm the inheritance bond, should the boy make that choice. He pulled out three copies of the ritual he and Potter had created, took a deep breath, and began to explain it to them, interrupted occasionally by their questions about the reason for various steps.

"Severus…" Minerva drew in a sharp breath when they came to the core of the ritual. "Are you sure…? Your heart…"

He'd anticipated that.

"I'll be fine, Minerva."

She did not accept that. Not that he had expected her to.

"Smethwyck has been giving me a strengthening potion. It is inappropriate for long-term use, but is safe enough to take for a week or so. It should protect me well enough to take me through the ceremony."

"And if it doesn't?"

He turned to look at her. "Then, Minerva, you will need to see to the boy. Promise me that you will," he insisted, his heart thumping rather painfully. _Stop that! _he ordered it sternly. "Get Arthur and Molly to take him in. Promise me."

She swallowed, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears, and patted him. "You know that I will, Severus. And Arthur and Molly…" Her voice choked and she did not go on.

He turned back to the papers. "I do _not _intend to die tomorrow, Minerva. Rest assured, I will be here September second to teach the usual motley group of first year dunderheads." He hoped he was telling the truth.

Minerva's laugh was rather watery. Aberforth _humphed _and they managed to go on.

When they were done, Snape and Minerva walked back through town, having arranged with Aberforth to meet at Snape's quarters the following day, an hour and a half before the ceremony. The review of the ceremony had roused all of Snape's misgivings again – for Potter much more than for himself. The boy had been through so much already…

_We don't have to do this, Potter,_ he thought in the boy's direction…vaguely _that_ way, he thought, estimating the Burrow's direction by the tug on his heart, whimsically wondering if it had anything to do with the boy. He wondered if the boy's friends had managed to talk some sense into him, and what the boy was doing. Quidditch, maybe, to relax… or chess… or snogging his girlfriend. He smiled.

Minerva glanced at him curiously. He shrugged, but kept the smile on his face. She smiled back and patted him on the shoulder, wishing him a good afternoon before heading up to her study.

He dropped his bag off at his desk and shucked out of his cloak, hanging it up in his wardrobe, and headed back out the door, to the Black Lake and the gravestones. On a whim, he stopped at Dumbledore's tomb. He had not been there since he and Potter laid the Elder Wand within. He had not been there before, either. The last year had been too dangerous, and after he recovered from his wounds, he had been too angry. He stood in the spot he and Potter had stood, wondering how he felt about the old Headmaster, feeling only loss and grief, but his heart was not in that place, right now, his mind and his heart too focused on Potter to completely sort through his feelings about Dumbledore. That would have to wait for another day.

He walked through the graveyard stopping at each headstone to murmur a blessing, patting each one, feeling as though they had… the right to a vote or something like it, though he knew that was nonsense. He finally came up to Fred, Remus and Tonks. He remembered he owed Tonks a drink, and looked at the sky, estimating the time by the sun. He would fast for a full day, but there was time for this. He conjured a bottle of fire whiskey and two tumblers, cast an eye at the two wizards and shook his head, conjuring two more. _Might as well do it right. _He poured a finger-full in each of the four tumblers.

"Nymphadora," he said, quite deliberately, but bowed, making a title of respect out of it. He pictured her in purple hair, snorting and shaking her head, then flashing him her brilliant, cheeky smile. "I apologize. Your Patronus was… noble. And I… I was an ass, wasn't I?" She winked and nodded. He turned to Remus' grave. "I apologize for insulting your wife, Lupin. She didn't deserve that. But next time… don't make the lady wait." _Where had that come from?_ He shook his head at himself. _As if I know anything about love!_

"I'm off to… adopt Potter, if you must know," he said. "If he'll have me. Either way… I'll look after him for you. Don't keep a seat warm for me. I don't intend to use it anytime soon. Is that understood?"

Remus smiled and nodded at him.

"Good. We'll… we'll see you in two days." He took a sip from each glass, raising his own to Fred, emptying the rest of each over the graves, and leaving the upended tumblers on the markers. He suddenly wondered if the house elves collected them each day, as they were never there the following morning.

He stood in front of the three graves a long time, feeling their presence… willing his soul bare and his heart open. _Do I do this?_ His face kept falling into and out of readiness for tears, and he allowed that to flow through him, too, though no tears fell from his eyes. He supposed tomorrow would remedy that.

He closed his eyes, feeling the sun on his shoulders, the light breeze lifting his hair across his face. Thestrals were calling from the Forbidden Forest across the grounds. An owl hooted its way across the sky, off on some postal errand. He could hear Hagrid's booming voice yelling for Fang in the distance. A splash from the Black Lake suggested the giant squid was floating on the surface again. He inhaled. Grass. Potting soil – far in the distance. The bark of the oak tree behind him. Lilies. _Where was that coming from?_

He waited, letting it wash over him, flow through him. He felt again Potter's shoulder leaning warmly into his, heard the boy's laughter, saw the green of his eyes… _It will be all right_, he thought across the distance between them, and saying his usual "Safe journey" to Fred, Lupin and Tonks, he turned to return to the castle.

He spent the rest of the day cleaning and then Cleansing his room and Potter's, making each step a meditation. His fingers lingered on the boy's journal on the shelves in his room and on the boy's Order of Merlin in his study. Because he was not eating, he took a lighter dose of his medication, following Smethwyck's instructions. In the evening, he sat before the fire, the potions book he had given Potter for his birthday open in his lap. He had meant to read a while, but the book had opened to the inside cover, and his finger had traced the boy's name.

_Harry James Potter._

_James._

_Tell me not to do this, James, _he thought_. _There was no answer. _Promitto_. I promise… _Tibi custodium._ I will guard him. _Protegam eum._ I will protect him. _Promitto tibi_. I promise you. _Sic eligere… sic sumo._

He went to bed at midnight, wondering if Potter was asleep, hoping the boy would have a peaceful night. He kept the door to his room open, in case a call came from the fireplace that he was needed, but woke to the sun streaming through his window, remembering nothing other than the softness of his pillow under his head the night before.

_This is the day I become a father, _he thought. _Or not… depending on how the boy decides._ He felt his utter acceptance of that, and lay still a moment longer, to hold onto that feeling, grasp it more securely. Then he rose to get ready for the day, almost walking through it in a dreamlike state, due no doubt, he thought, to not having eaten since lunchtime the day before.

He bathed with ritual attention, much as he had the day they'd left the Elder Wand in Dumbledore's hands, though more slowly and attentively, thinking,_ "Lotus fuero mundus. _I wash myself clean," as he did so.

As he was finishing, Aberforth knocked at his door, having come through the floo connection in Minerva's office rather than Snape's. "Come," Snape thought, and waved to unward the door.

Aberforth came to the door of his room, grunting when he saw Snape still in his underthings. He was dressed in formal, light-blue robes that matched his eyes, a richly-brocaded tasseled tam crowning his grey-white hair, Snape saw the outline of his wand under the thin cloth of his summer robe, on the inside of his left forearm.

"I see you're still here," Aberforth observed, leaning on the doorframe. "Not gonna run out on the boy then," he said gruffly.

Snape snorted and shook his head, pulling on black pants and socks, and bending to fasten his ankle boots. He gestured to the white, high-necked shirt on his bed. Aberforth came into the room.

"You're doin' this right formal, aren't you?" he asked. Snape smiled, his eyes glittering at the man. Aberforth nodded. "Come here with you, then," he said, shaking his head.

Snape stood still under Aberforth's critical gaze. He saw the man take in the scars – twenty-seven matched sets – tracking their way from the back of his wand arm up his neck and down around his back at the waist, and the prominent, still-raw scar where the Dark Mark had stained his left forearm, torn open by one of Nagini's strikes and his instinctive attempt to fend her off.

Aberforth snorted. He grabbed at Snape's left arm and held it in his firm grasp. Snape stood still for it, not even twitching to grab at the ebony wand on the table at his side for comfort. Aberforth suddenly slapped at the visible reminder of the Mark – hard. Snape's shoulder jerked at the pain of it, but he held his arm steady in Aberforth's grasp… as if he had a choice_._

"Best get over that, lad," the man said. Snape inhaled, shut his eyes, and exhaled. Then he opened his eyes and looked into the blue Dumbledore eyes staring at him. He nodded.

Aberforth dropped his arm, still stinging from the quick blow, and took up a vial of lavender oil on the nightstand. He dropped some oil into his palm, rubbed his thumb in it, and touched it to Snape's eyelids, forehead, temples, and over his heart, then used the oil to cleanse the place where the Dark Mark had stained his skin and each of the fifty-four puncture wounds. He ended with Snape's hands, which he treated much as Snape had treated Potter's hand when they left the Elder Wand at Dumbledore's grave, more careful of the wounds now, his touch surprisingly gentle.

_"Mundabo vos oleo. _I cleanse you with oil," Aberforth murmured as he finished with Snape's wand hand.

Minerva and Aberforth had looked at him questioningly, reading this part the day before. He forbore to explain much more other than "Cleansing ritual." He was not sure he could explain it… and was certain he did not want to… that he was still washing himself clean of it. No one alive could absolve him anymore… Well, maybe Potter, but that, he would never ask. _Best get over that, lad._

_"Potest me dignus_. May it make me worthy", he responded as Aberforth finished. That part was not in Potter's copy of the ritual. Snape had added it to his own, and to Aberforth's.

Aberforth snorted and shook his head. "Bloody fool." Snape laughed silently, his heart warming at Aberforth's tender care. The man turned to pick up the white shirt and slipped it over Snape's head. He would touch nothing from this moment forward until the ritual, when he would clasp Potter's arm – assuming they got that far.

He thought of the way the ritual could bifurcate – leading to the inheritance spell or the adoption spell – at the boy's choice, at Snape's insistence.

_Whatever_ _you wish, Potter. Whatever you need._

He stood still, moving only as Aberforth directed him, allowing the man to clothe him in his dress robes, tolerating the strange sensation of someone in his personal space. It was easier than it might have been, he realized, because of Potter – leaning into Snape for support, or leaning his head on Snape's chest after a nightmare, clinging to Snape's hand in his sleep, or tapping his toes under the table. He was getting used, too, to the rather constant patting he'd had to endure from what seemed like half the castle's inhabitants since he woke in the infirmary in June. He hadn't realized, until this moment, how that contact was changing him, connecting him, breaking down his defenses.

_Surrender._

_"Ego sanctificabo me. _I prepare myself," he thought, and felt the spell flow through him from head to toe, soothing him.

Minerva knocked at his door just as Aberforth did up one last button on his waistcoat, Snape standing with his arms out to the side. Aberforth let her in. She was dressed in green brocaded robes that looked heavy for the season, but they moved lightly, draping as if they were made of silk rather than brocade. She stopped as he came out of his room, his hands carefully away from his body. Aberforth slipped behind him, coming out to tuck his wand up his left sleeve, into the pocket between his shirt and the sleeve of his outer garment.

"Oh, Severus," Minerva breathed. He clenched his eyes shut, wondering what she saw, and giving thanks there were no mirrors in his study.

They left his study together. Minerva and Aberforth held his elbows on their way down the one flight of stairs to the great oaken doors at the entrance. Unexpectedly, most of the faculty was standing in the entrance hall. Snape nearly balked at the sight, but Minerva and Aberforth propelled him forward. They pulled him to a halt in front of his colleagues, who were smiling at him, some with tears in their eyes.

Flitwick cleared his throat and said in his tight tenor. "It seems only right, Severus. We just wanted you to know… you and Potter… you have our support, and our blessing." The rest of the faculty murmured agreement.

Snape shook his head, inhaled and tilted it back to look out the high, mullioned windows at the furthest heights of the hall, exhaled and struggled to hold back tears. He looked back at them, smiled slightly, spasmodically, and jerked his head in a nod. He turned to McGonagall with a pleading look that clearly said, "Get me out of here!" She patted his shoulder and turned him to go. Flitwick, Trelawney and Sprout patted him as he passed, but they knew better than to touch his hands.

Once outside the gates, Aberforth took him by one elbow and McGonagall by the other. Snape allowed himself to be carried along rather than invoking the spell himself.

_Surrender. Let it flow_.

They turned on the spot, and apparated to the lane outside the Burrow, catching him so that he would not pitch forward as they appeared. George and Granger – Hermione – were waiting for them at the gate. They looked at Snape somberly, and he wondered if they had, indeed, talked Potter out of the adoption ritual. He looked at each of them in turn and smiled reassuringly. _It's all right, either way. _They returned his look without changing expression.

George murmured, "This way," and led them to the field in the back of the house and a bench where Snape could wait. Kingsley was there, along with Hagrid. Neither of them approached Snape, but left him with his two witnesses. He wondered where Potter was, what he was doing, how he was feeling about all of this… He wondered what he was feeling about all of this himself, and closed his eyes to meditate, that state made easier by his empty stomach, leaving him slightly light-headed.

Moments later, or so it felt, Aberforth touched his elbow, pulling him out of his reverie. "Time to get started," the man's gravelly voice said in his ear.

Snape looked up to see Potter, dressed in the robes Ron and Hermione had given him and flanked by Arthur and Neville, standing at the other side of the garden, apparently listening intently to something Neville was saying. The boy did not look in his direction, and he cast his own eyes down.

_It_ _will be all right, _he told himself. _As long as the boy is all right. Either way. Promitto. _But he did not let himself look to see if he could figure out what the boy had decided. The boy was avoiding looking at him, too, he realized, both of them uncertain of each other now, because of their time apart. Which was as it should be.

The garden was crowded now, he realized, filling up with the Weasley clan, with Hagrid and Kingsley… with Aberforth and Neville and Minerva and Granger. _Seventeen,_ some part of his mind noted. For some reason, that number felt right, comforting. In any case, he felt some tension drain out of his shoulders, and he sat a bit straighter, then stood, responsive to Kingsley's summoning gesture, as the rest of the group formed a loose circle, through which he and his witnesses, and Potter with his, walked.

They met in the middle, and he did look at the boy then. He was pale, but that could be from having skipped breakfast… or he might be afraid. Snape considered him. No – not afraid –he thought. Worried… perhaps hopeful. _It's all right, Potter_, he felt himself begin automatically, and had to bite his tongue and shut his eyes to keep himself from it.

"_Ami meum_," Kingsley began, calling the group's attention.

"My friends, while this ritual, as Harry and Severus have designed it, requires High Latin, we and they will repeat each part in English, so that there will be no question as to what they are agreeing to and what you've been called here to witness." He looked over the group. "I know that all of you here love Harry. I know that many of you love Severus…"

Snape would have been uncomfortable at that, had he been paying attention. As it was, his attention was divided between working to keep himself calm, his mind empty, on the one hand, and his awareness of Potter on the other. Kingsley had gone on. "This ritual will be painful for both of them. You are not to interfere or intervene unless you have an assigned role to play. Is that clear?"

He looked at each of them in turn. Ron, George, Percy and Charlie were pale, Bill and Arthur determined, Neville calm and accepting. Molly, Fleur and Hermione already had tears in their eyes, but Ginny looked as calm as Neville. Minerva and Aberforth both had the strangest looks on their faces as they eyed Snape, half fond, half bemused. Minerva shook her head slightly and sniffed. Hagrid, standing near Charlie, blew his nose noisily.

"I want to remind you that they have _chosen_ to do this. We will not interfere – we will only aid them in getting through it. If you don't think you can do this, you need to leave – now."

No one moved, though Ron looked uncomfortable. Hermione slipped her fingers through his. Ginny held onto his other hand.

"Minerva… Aberforth…" Kingsley nodded to them, and they moved to take up positions on either side of Snape. "Arthur and Neville," he nodded to them and they stood to each side of the boy.

"Let's begin. _Quis exigenti ritualem?_ Who requests this ritual?"

Potter, on Kingsley's right, faced him.

"_Ego exigenti._ I, Harry James Potter, request it."

Snape, on Kingsley's left, faced Potter.

"_Ego exigenti._ I, Severus Alan Snape, request it," he said, looking at the boy.

"Eyes on me, Severus," Kingsley said. He felt himself resist that – he wanted to keep an eye on the boy, but… _Surrender…_ He complied.

"_Qui est testimonium tuum?_" Kingsley asked Potter. "Who is your witness?"

"_Ego, Arthur Septimus Weasley, testimonium_. I am his witness," Arthur said at the boy's right elbow.

"_Gratias, Arthur_. Thank you," Kingsley said.

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," the boy said. "_Gratias_."

"_Ignoce mihi_. Forgive me, Harry," Arthur said, speaking for all of them, asking forgiveness in advance for not stopping this, not intervening when it hurt, as it surely would.

"_Nihil est ad ignoscendum_. There is nothing to forgive," the boy responded calmly, turning to nod reassuringly at the man and flicking his eyes to his friends.

Kingsley turned to Snape. "_Qui est testimonium tuum?_ Who is your witness?" he asked.

"_Ego, Minerva Kathleen McGonagall, testimonium_. I am his witness," McGonagall said in a quavering voice.

"_Gratias_, Minerva. Thank you," Kingsley said.

"_Gratias_, Minerva. Thank you."

"_Ignoce mihi_. Forgive me, Severus," Minerva said, her voice cracking, her face pale.

"_Nihil est ad ignoscendum_. There is nothing to forgive," Snape said, gazing at her with a calm he did not fully feel. _Take care of Potter for me, _he thought in her direction, simply letting it show in his eyes. She met his gaze and nodded, and he smiled reassuringly. He wished he felt as calm as the boy seemed to be. His chest hurt. _No._ He would not allow that. _Empty your mind. Control your emotions_.

Kingsley handed a cup of _Veritaserum_ to Snape. Snape had insisted that he be first in this. If he was to do this, allow the boy to do this, he would damned well take any risk first… would make himself vulnerable first, before he would let the blasted boy throw himself into the fire. He swallowed… and realized his irritation came from… fear.

_Calm yourself_, he ordered_. Check your intent, _he thought automatically_. Dic Verum, Severus. Tell the truth. Do you mean this?_

_I do_.

It calmed him.

He inhaled and cleared his mind_._ He took a good mouthful of the truth serum, swallowing it calmly. _Veritas_. _Truth_. It would make no difference – he would hold nothing back, could not possibly do so. He had no wish to hide anything from the boy, not any bit of truth.

Kingsley took the cup back from his hand and nodded to Arthur. Arthur crossed to Snape and looked him in the eyes. Snape knew his eyes were dilating, because the setting sun in his eyes hurt. Arthur whispered a question to him which his mind did not even register, though his lips responded. The man nodded to Kingsley and returned to the boy's side, whispering an assurance, but Potter kept his eyes on Kingsley.

Kingsley next held the cup out to Potter, who took it and drank nearly as deeply as had Snape. Snape blinked in the light as Minerva crossed to the boy then returned to him. She too whispered an assurance, which he nearly shrugged off. It was irrelevant. He trusted the boy and did not need the proof offered by the potion. However, he reminded himself that he had proposed this part of the ritual, to protect the boy and his witnesses from any questions by the ignorant.

Their witnesses drew them back to dueling distance, though neither of them would draw their wand for this. There were more powerful weapons than wands.

Kingsley turned first to the boy. "_Certus es?_ Are you sure you want to do this?" In response, the boy turned to face Snape across the distance between them.

"_Dic mihi non facere hoc_. Tell me not to do this," Potter said, looking into Snape's eyes.

"_Noli facere_. Don't do this." _Don't do this, Potter. We don't have to do this. Don't do this… Here's why…_

Snape's eyes were already filling with tears as he opened his mind to let the boy in, the Veritaserum not even letting him lie to himself. He hadn't… should have… expected that.

_Remember_, he thought at the boy.

He felt himself falling into it, felt Potter falling into it with him, so different from Voldemort's repeated violent violations of his mind, so different from Potter's intrusion that time he'd broken through Snape's defenses in that parody of an Occlumency lesson. He wondered, now, under the influence of the Veritaserum, whether he had wanted that, really, whether the boy broke through because he had _wanted_ the boy to know… to _see_ him… and his father.

_This is your father, you arrogant, ignorant boy… and this is me… __See__ me._

_Did he want the boy to see him, __know__ him, even then?_ His heart trembled at the thought, and his mind flicked – Potter's mind following his – to his repeated deduction of points from Gryffindor, the detentions he repeatedly gave the boy. _Why was that? So he could spend time with him… with Lily's son… with Potter? _Some echo from the boy's mind hovered on the fringes of his awareness as his mind flicked through Potter sorting through detention cards, Snape pondering him out of the corner of his eye, his heart aching and warming simultaneously.

He felt them fall through that memory on their way to others. _Take it_, he offered again. And his desire – his _need _to be _known_, for his truth to be known, overwhelmed him, and he practically thrust the memories at the boy, forced himself to reveal it all… forced the boy to watch, to see, to know.

_This is all of me, Potter. You think you want this? You'd better be bloody sure, Potter… because I am not perfect._

I misjudged Lupin… _It seems – almost impossible – that Black could have entered the school without inside help. I did express my concerns when you appointed…_

I condemned your godfather… _Give me a reason, _he whispered, pointing his wand straight between Black's eyes. _Give me a reason to do it, and I swear I will…_

I thought you were arrogant and mediocre. _You see what you expect to see, Severus…_

_And I am petty and cruel._

Granger's teeth, Neville's terror, Potter's perfectly good potion spilled, vanished from his cauldron… hexing James and Sirius and Remus… his snide comments to the werewolf… his taunting of Sirius…

_And I am a damned __coward__, Potter. Don't forget that._

_COWARD! _Minerva shrieked at him.

_Fight back! Fight back, you COWARD!_

And Potter nearly falling from his broom, Snape frantic to save him, his heart pounding, sweating in his fear, uttering counter curses as fast as he could, not even daring to breathe…

And falling to his knees on a wind-swept hill, the crack of Dumbledore apparating.

_Don't kill me!_

_"You disgust me."_

_I wish I were dead._

_"And what use would that be to anyone?"_

_… never – never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us. Swear it! I cannot bear… especially Potter's son…_

_"My word, Severus, that I shall never reveal the best of you? If you insist…"_

And racing to alert the Order that the boy and his friends had gone to the Ministry, into a trap, his heart beating frantic rhythm… how to solve this without Voldemort knowing it was him…

And Potter and his friends trapped in the Shrieking Shack with a murderer and a werewolf…_ No – he was wrong about that, wasn't he?_

And Potter on the run, who knew where, in danger, and Snape, helpless… helpless even to prevent his colleague…_ Oh, Charity, I'm so sorry…_

And Potter… where was he? He'd been submerged in the Black Lake over an hour… Snape trembling, sweating in fear for the boy… The boy submerged in a frozen pond, the surface rippling as he fought some unknown threat to get the Sword… The boy gone from Dumbledore's side, Snape racing McGonagall and the Headmaster to the castle terrified they would be too late to save him…

And his terror and impotence at learning the Carrows were Cruciating the students…

And his terror at returning to Voldemort's side, knowing it would… must… eventually, inevitably, lead to his death…

And his terror in the Astronomy Tower… _Severus… Please…_

_I thought… all these years… that we were protecting him…_

_FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK, YOU COWARD!_

And Potter, terrified, horrified in the Shrieking Shack, Snape's heart beating a terrified rhythm, desperate to flee… desperate to save the boy.

_And his terror that the boy… would hate him…_

He tried to hide that, but the Veritaserum would not let him. It led him right into it – _the moment it all went wrong… the moment he listened at the door to the room where Trelawney rasped out the prophecy… the moment he told Voldemort… the moment he realized, horrified, what the Dark Lord intended to do about it… to kill the boy, Lily's son… to kill Lily and James… the moment he'd pleaded with the Dark Lord to save Lily's life… but had not pled for the life of her son… or her husband._

_"You disgust me."_

_I wish I were dead._

_And what use would that be to anyone?_

He could not hide from it… or hide it from the boy – and he thought he would die from it. _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… You should hate me. Why don't you hate me, Potter?_

And a sudden realization – right here, right now, in this Veritaserum-induced moment of clarity – that for Potter to hate him, reject him, though he certainly deserved that, would hurt worse than death at Voldemort's hands… worse than being judged and rejected before he was even halfway to Hogwarts on his first train ride to school… worse than the words of hatred and rejection his parents had flung at him… worse than Petunia's derisive laughter… worse even, if this were possible, than McGonagall's _COWARD!..._ than losing Lily.

_How could that be?_

If he had not been already – Veritaserum assuring his loss of emotional control – he would surely have been weeping at that, if he could breathe enough to weep. He would die of it. He knew that more surely than when he thought Lily's death would kill him. His chest hurt, but he barely noticed. His heart hurt… he could not breathe.

But some other presence was there, and if he did not find his way back, that small _other _would be lost as well, and that he could not allow. He cupped his hands around the small light that was the spark of that _other _in his mind, protecting it from the whirl of thought, emotion, memory that threatened to overwhelm it. It grew stronger, and with it, his resolve to keep it _safe… safe… safe_… and he became aware that it was Potter's mind in his that he was holding, Potter's mind that had been at risk, even more than his own, and he cradled it carefully, drew it to him, protected it from him and from the maelstrom he had let loose around them both.

_Come on, Potter… I've got you. It's all right, I've got you. It's all right… you're safe now… Here is the way out. It's all right, son… you're safe. I'll keep you safe… I promise… You'll be safe… Come on… Come on, this is the way out. Let's go, Potter... Let's go home._

The boy pulled out of his memories… or Snape helped him find his way out… or… In any case, Snape found himself weeping, bent over where he stood on the lawn behind the Burrow, the Veritaserum obliterating any hope of emotional control. The memory of the ways he had hurt the boy and those the boy loved hurt him more than he could have imagined. It was burning a hole in his stomach, made his chest clench so tightly that he was sure he was dying, if not already dead. He fought not to collapse, could barely stand. He wished he _was_ dead.

But across the circle from him, the boy had fallen to the grass, curled in on himself in his own pain, sobbing… in front of people he loved and who loved him… none of whom moved to help him. Though it broke from the ritual, Snape could not bear it, and he ran to the boy, pushing aside his own pain. _Irrelevant… irrelevant. _Skidding in the grass, he slipped to his knees at the boy's side and pulled him up into his arms, holding him, his own tears joining with those the boy shed, the boy clinging to him, sobbing.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry," he whispered through his tears, over and over, rocking the boy. "I'm sorry… Forgive me..." he choked, though he knew he did not deserve to be forgiven. "Forgive me…" And he meant not just for all that he had done, but for putting the boy through this now, making him relive it, causing him new pain because now he knew the truth of it, the whole of it… _I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…_

Two sets of hands pulled the boy out of his arms, pulled him, protesting hoarsely "No!" away from the boy. Arthur and Neville, their own eyes filled with tears, pulled the boy to his feet. Minerva and Aberforth kept him from going back to the boy.

"You're not done, son," Aberforth whispered roughly into his ear.

_What?_

"_Ignosce mihi_," McGonagall whispered for him across the space, her pale, tearful face focused on Arthur's. It took a moment for Snape to realize she was continuing the ritual.

"_Nihil est ad ignoscendum_," Arthur responded to McGonagall shakily, still holding Potter up, Neville on the boy's other side.

"_Ignosce mihi_," Snape repeated finally, trying unsuccessfully to swallow past the tears clogging his throat. "Forgive me," he said, looking across to the boy, the anguish on the boy's face piercing him with fresh pain.

_How dare he ask forgiveness? How could he possibly ask forgiveness for all he had done?_

The boy slowly pulled himself away from Arthur and Neville's support, to stand on his own. "_Nihil est ad ignoscendum_," he choked out. "There is nothing to forgive," though his tears gave lie to the words.

"_Ignosce mihi usquam_," Snape begged, and he could not keep the plea from his voice, tears still running down his face. He did not wipe them away. "Forgive me anyway," he pleaded. _I'm so sorry, Potter…_

"_Ignosco_," the boy whispered hoarsely, and though his eyes were filled with pain, they were also filled with truth. "I forgive you."

_What am I doing? Why am I doing this to you? Oh, gods, you should hate me._

"_Dic mihi non facere hoc_. Tell me not to do this," Snape said, but he shook his head at the boy. _Don't do this, Potter. Don't do this to yourself. You don't have to do this._

But the boy seemed to grow stronger in his determination as Snape looked at him, and Snape realized they were still in each other's mind. He shook his head again. _You don't have to do this, Potter. Please don't do this to yourself. Please…_

And he meant it, every word, not wanting Potter to feel what he had felt, revealing himself to the boy.

But, "_Noli facere_," the boy said, trembling. "Don't do this." _Here's why_.

And they fell into it again, into Potter's mind this time, and though Snape wanted to hold back, did not want the boy to do this, suffer this, the Veritaserum would not allow it, would not allow him to keep a clinical distance, noting the boy's well-organized mind, the surprisingly bright spots of knowledge and comprehension and potential, and the darker spots of ignorance and lack of understanding.

It was to these darker spots the boy's mind drew him – his nightmares, his fears, his failings… what the boy thought of as failings, anyway.

Snape tried to hold back, but the boy's younger mind clamped around his, so that he found himself lost in the whirl of it, felt it as his own.

He/we/I is/are/am weak, he thought… he felt. _I did not use the Elder wand to save you…_

He tried to wave that away, but the force of the boy's uncertainty and fear would not let him.

_I am a coward._

He quailed in the face of death, could not dare to think about it, must simply _do _it, lest his courage fail him completely and he run, as Voldemort would accuse him of doing.

_I'm petty and cruel._

And he/they cursed Draco, cheered Hermione's punch, taunted Dudley, took pleasure in Umbridge's treatment of Snape.

_I'm arrogant – just like you said. _And he felt the boy's heart tremble in fear at that, fear that Snape would judge him and reject him. And he/they shouted at Dumbledore, destroyed everything in the Headmaster's office…

Snape almost pulled out of it then, the echo of his own destruction too strong, but the boy would not let him go.

_There's no need to call me 'Sir', Professor._

_I never would have believed it. The man who taught me to fight Dementors… a coward!_

_FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK, YOU COWARD…!_

_Kill me then… kill me like you killed him, you coward – _

_And I'm always __wrong__…_

And he feared Snape would hate him, reject him because he was, after all, James' son – just as much a bully, just as arrogant and cock-sure… and just as unable… as miserably unable… to protect those he loved as his father had been…

I misjudged you… I misjudged Sirius and I didn't even know him. I led Hermione into a trap. I led Neville and Luna and Ron and Hermione and Ginny… _and Sirius… oh Merlin, Sirius… _into a trap… _I killed my godfather…_ I nearly killed my friends because I was so arrogant.

Then a kaleidoscope of images…

_Oh God – it's my fault… It's my fault… It's all my fault… I told Cedric to take the Cup… it's my fault he died. _An image of the two boys grabbing the Cup's handles… of Cedric falling in the graveyard…

_It's my fault… I led Sirius into a trap… I didn't leave when he told me to… Sirius_… Sirius falling through the veil, Bellatrix's Avada Kedavra still echoing in the chamber, a surprised look on the boy's godfather's face…

_It's my fault… I made Dumbledore drink the poisoned water – that's why he was too weak to defend himself… and I did nothing – nothing when he died._

_Please, please, please, no… not that, not that, I'll do anything._

_Just drink, Professor, just drink…_

_KILL ME!_

_This – this one will! Just drink this…_

_ It's my fault we got caught by the Snatchers – I said the name. I was stupid… stupid!_

_"Volde-"_

_"NO!" Ron yelled._

_"-mort."_

_So it's my fault that Dobby… Hermione…_

_And if I hadn't come back to the school… they'd all be alive now. Remus… Fred…_

A blast of rubble… Percy leaning over Fred, sobbing… pulling Fred's body into a nook to protect it… Fred lying in the Great Hall, Molly and Arthur and George sobbing… Remus and Tonks' bodies lying next to him…

_They died… and it's all my fault…_

And the boy was dying of the pain of it, wishing himself dead, thought he was alive only out of fear, only out of guilt for what it would do to others if he let himself escape that way…

But Snape's mind couldn't see it… He tried to – or the boy tried to, but Snape's mind kept superimposing _Potter_ over _James_ – the impetuous boy, yes – but only because he was curious… only because he wanted to know… Snape understood that. And only because he wanted to save someone… and Snape understood that, too. And… he was wrong sometimes, but who _could_ have pieced things together, really? And he was arrogant sometimes… but hadn't he been pushed… by a more arrogant Draco… an even more arrogant Snape?

And… what else _could_ the boy have done than come to the school to finish the job? Who could he have trusted to help, when Snape himself was a danger to the boy?

_This isn't your fault, Potter. None of this is your fault._

He'd been backed into it more than Snape had ever been… by Snape himself… and then by events so far out of his control it would have been battling the very turn of the earth and the stars to change his path.

_It's not your fault, Potter. __It's not your fault__._

His conviction about that was so strong he felt the boy's mind falter, hesitant, desperate for forgiveness.

_Come on, boy… Come on…_

And he reminded him. _You stood up to me when I was unfair… You tried to save your godfather, no matter that it was a trap – you __tried__. You empowered your friends, you taught them to defend themselves. You set out on an impossible quest – and you succeeded. You walked into that damned forest, to your death… on your own… You saved them… you saved them all – almost all._

And Snape's heart practically broke at that, and his despair over losing them _Potter, Lily, Remus, Mad-Eye, Black, Dumbledore, Fred_ overwhelmed him so that he nearly welcomed the thought that he might die of it, but when he felt Potter consider that as well, their shared losses overwhelming him as well, making _him_ consider, too, merely… stopping, Snape pulled out of it.

_No!_

_But you almost died… and it was my fault…_

_No, Potter. You saved me. Why did you save me, then? We're still here, damn it – both of us… and we both need to learn how to live with it. Come on, I'll help. Come on, Potter._

Snape suddenly remembered the people they loved who were standing in the circle around them, and it called him out of it.

_This is the way out, Potter. Come on. It's all right. I'm still here… we're still here. It will be all right. It's not your fault! Come on, Potter… let's go home. _He found his way out, pulling the boy with him, painfully parting from Potter's memories, and knew that the boy could barely stand to look at him, knew the boy's fear and guilt. His tears were for the boy's pain now, not his own.

_Look at me, _he thought, and the boy dared it, dared to look into his eyes. He raised his arms, and the boy ran and threw himself against him, nearly driving both of them to the ground again, but Snape stood firm, and wrapped his arms around the boy again as the boy whispered, "I'm sorry. It's my fault… You almost died… I'm sorry… You must hate me… You're right about me… I _am_ arrogant. I'm sorry."

He whispered into the dark hair. "Shh… shh… it's all right. It's not your fault, you silly boy… It's all right. I don't hate you, Potter. I could never hate you …" _I could __never__ hate you_. "It's_ not your fault." _His heart affirmed that, nearly breaking for the boy, nearly breaking with his love for the boy, and he knew full well that the boy could feel it, hear it, see it, because they were still in each other's minds.

He held on when hands would have pulled the boy out of his arms, because he did not want the boy to have to go through with this, finish it… did not want to put him through any more. _For what? For me? Why am I doing this to you? Why am I letting you do it to yourself? You don't have to do this, Potter. Don't do this. Don't do this to yourself._

But the strong hands separating them won, and pulled them apart, and that hurt so much that Snape could barely stand it, clutching at his chest. Arthur whispered into the boy's ear, then spoke to McGonagall, across from them, but Snape had only eyes and ears for the boy.

_Potter… _He ached to go to the boy, leaned into it, straining against Minerva's and Aberforth's hands on his arms, holding him where he stood. He barely heard McGonagall responding to Arthur.

"_Ignoce mihi_," the boy whispered miserably, looking up at Snape. "Forgive me."

He replied without needing Minerva's prompt. "_Nihil est ad ignoscendum_," he said in his heart and his mind, as well as aloud. He had never meant anything more. "There is _nothing_ to forgive, Potter" and he let the boy see the full truth of that in his mind.

"_Ignosce mihi usquam_. Forgive me anyway," the boy whispered desperately.

"_Ignosco_," Snape choked out. _Potter… it's __not__your__fault__. _"I forgive you."

Minerva murmured into his ear. "Stand still, Severus. Will you?" He nodded, gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists, barely able to make himself hold firm, so strong was his urge to go to the boy, to comfort him. Arthur was whispering to the boy across the way.

The hands restraining each of them let them go, though Arthur and Bill stayed at the boy's elbow, Minerva and Aberforth at Snape's.

Kingsley turned to Snape this time. His dark eyes were filled with pain for them both, but his deep voice was firm. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Snape nodded without looking at him.

"Severus," Kingsley prompted.

He looked at the man, his eyes and his mind blinded by the blaze of lights, now the sun was set, Veritaserum and his connection with Potter's mind doubling the effect. "_Certus es?_ Are you sure you want to do this?"

"_Certus sum_. I'm sure," he said, working it past the ache in his chest, his eyes still full of tears that overflowed, tracing twin paths down his face.

Kingsley gestured to Minerva and Arthur, and they touched Snape and the boy on the elbow, indicating they should move forward.

They met in the middle, standing mere inches apart. Snape's heart was pounding, aching for the boy and what he had been through, and he wanted to put his arms around him… but the boy's eyes begged him not to… begged him to see it through. He held his wand arm out to the boy, and Potter clung to it as if it kept him upright. Snape clasped the boy's forearm and looked him in the eyes, willing him strength. He kept his mind open – as if he had a choice… choosing anyway, wanting the boy to know the whole of it, whatever truth he might see, wanting him to choose, fully choose, willing to lose if that was what it took to keep the boy safe. He wanted the boy to know.

_Whatever it takes, Potter._ _Whatever__ you need._

"_Manu mea est tuum. _My hand is yours," he said. _All that I have is yours… even my life._

"_Manu mea est tuum_. My hand is yours," the boy said before he could go on, and someone – _Hermione?_ – gasped. Snape jerked and almost pulled away in shock, but the boy was prepared and held to his arm tightly.

Snape stared at the boy, shaking his head slightly. _What are you doing? _He shook his head again. _Don't do this. You don't have to do this. Don't do this,_ he thought at the boy in a panic, opening his hand and struggling to pull away, but the boy held firm and refused to yield, his eyes clamped on Snape's face. His hand was shaking… or was it Snape's arm that shook? Snape's chest heaved.

He closed his eyes. _What are you doing, Potter? _He opened them to find Potter's eyes on his, determined, certain. He shivered and that turned into overt shaking. He searched the boy's face. _What are you doing? _The boy just looked at him steadily. _Breathe_, the boy thought at him, and his eyes glittered. Snape breathed. The boy squeezed his arm, urging him on. He clasped the boy's arm again.

"_Manu tua meum est._" he said, dazed. "Your hand is mine." _I give you dominion over all that I have. _He shook his head at the boy again, half in admonition, half still saying, _Don't do this, Potter… are you insane?_

"_Manu tua meum est_. Your hand is mine," the boy repeated, holding firmly to Snape's shaking arm.

"_Eligere_," Snape breathed. "Choose."

"_Eligere_… Choose," the boy said, nearly daring him.

"_Sic eligere_," they said in unison. "I so choose."

Someone sighed. Snape's chest was heaving and he had difficulty breathing.

"Harry, _Certus es_?" Kingsley asked.

This was it – the choice point. _Choose, Potter,_ Snape thought at him, his hand ready to hold on, ready to let go. He kept his eyes on the boy's, wanting to see his acceptance of it. _You know me. Choose. It's your choice. Whatever you need…_

_The inheritance bond… the adoption bond…_ _Surrender._

"_Certus sum_. I'm sure," Potter said.

_Sure of what? _ Snape held perfectly still, waiting for it.

"_Ego te accipio in patrem meum_," the boy said, those unfairly green eyes glittering up to meet Snape's. "I take you as my father," and on the last word, his voice broke, his eyes filling with tears again. "_Eligere_. Choose," he begged.

Snape held the boy's arm strongly now, supporting him, reassuring him. _Potter… _His heart pounded in his chest.

"_Sic eligere._ I so choose. _Ego sum pater tuum. _I _am_ your father," he said shakily, barely getting the words out.

Forcing himself not to whisper, he continued. "_Ego te accipio in filium meum_. I take you as my son." He inhaled a shaky breath. _Oh, Merlin_. _Please be sure, Potter, _he prayed silently. "_Eligere. _Choose._"_

"_Sic eligere._ _Ego sum filium tuum_. I so choose. I _am_ your son," the boy replied.

_How could that be?_

They stood looking at each other for the space of five heartbeats. Snape knew this, because he could feel it… felt his heart beat in time with the boy's… felt the spell take before they even said the words together on the next heartbeat… knew they had both already chosen.

"_Ego sic eligere. Ego sic sumo_. I so choose. I so choose."

_Potter…_

Two red cords of light twined around their arms, one leading from Snape's heart, one from Potter's, joining and becoming one, binding them together, visible for several moments before they sank into them, tracing a path through their veins, weaving the bond around each other's hearts and minds.

"_Ego sic testis_," Minerva and Arthur said together, echoed by Neville and Aberforth. "I so witness."

The others murmured in agreement, but Snape barely heard them. He and the boy stood locked in awareness… that they breathed together; their hearts beat together, each of them gasping for breath as if they had climbed a mountain at a sprint. Snape gripped the boy's arm tightly, pulling the boy a step more toward him and narrowing his eyes down at the boy until they were mere black, glittering slits.

_What did you do, Potter?_

The boy smiled up at him through his tears.

"_Now_ can I call you 'Dad'?" he choked out.

Snape's heart thumped, and he felt the boy's heart answer. _Potter… what have you done? _He shook his head and pulled Potter to him, holding the boy's head against his beating, healing heart. "Yes... Potter... _Now _you may."

"It's _Harry_… Dad," the boy said.

"_Harry_," Snape said, wrapping his arms around the boy… _his_ boy. "… _Son_."

"Blimey!" someone said. There was a _thwack! _and Hermione's voice said, "_Ronald!_"

How long they stood there, the boy melting into him, his essence making its way into and around his heart, as if it were not already emblazoned there … always… Snape did not know, but eventually other voices and hands intruded, and pulled them apart into other embraces, though that hardly mattered now.

The group broke the circle and clustered around to congratulate them. They were hugged and patted and had their hands shook and their backs pounded, and Snape found he did not mind at all, Potter's – _Harry's – _joy in it echoing through their bond, though Snape knew that effect would fade as they grew used to it. But tonight it was strong – overpowering in fact, so that he laughed when the boy did, and he felt each hug and pat on the boy as if it were his own. Ginny, practical girl, refrained from kissing the boy, other than on his cheek, for which Snape was immensely grateful. The moment that thought occurred to him, he caught Po – _Harry's _– choked laughter and looked up to find the boy's laughing eyes on him.

They sat next to each other at the celebratory feast afterward. Molly had made all of Harry's favorites, and apparently he had told her the things that Snape preferred, because all of his favorites were there, too. Potter – _Harry _– must have liked the story Snape had told him about eating off each other's plate, because he kept reaching over and under Snape's arm to snatch things off his dishes. Snape occasionally speared something from Harry's plate – because his son wanted it that way. Each time he did so, the boy turned to him grinning, and he found himself shaking his head and laughing.

_My hand is yours,_ his heart said. And Harry's answered.

At one point, the boy was so intent on reaching past Snape's arm despite his attempts to block him that Snape threw his arm around the boy's neck and wrestled his head to the table. Harry grabbed him and tucked his head into Snape's chest, inhaling and exhaling on a sigh. Snape's breath caught in his chest, and he found himself brushing the boy's dark head with his lips before he knew what he was doing. He looked up to find nearly everyone's eyes on them, but rather than letting go, he simply hung his head, shaking it, and then kissed the boy's head again, gently, before letting him up.

_My hand is yours… your hand is mine… I so choose… _his heart beat out the rhythm… _son._

Afterward, they and Minerva took the floo network back to Hogwarts. Minerva insisted the trip end at her quarters, but they did not linger, taking the stairs and halls to their own quarters, walking in step, laughing at it. Though it was late, Snape asked the house elves to send up some tea and biscuits, and they sat next to each other on the sofa in front of the fire, their legs stretched out, talking about nothing. Potter – _Harry – _kept tapping Snape's stockinged toes with his until Snape finally asked him to remove his shoes. Then the boy curled up on the sofa and fell asleep, his head against Snape's shoulder. Snape sat looking down at the boy for a long time, brushing the hair from his forehead, studying his face, listening to the boy's heart beating in time with his, knowing that awareness would fade and wanting to savor it while he could.

_Harry. My son._

He shook his head and laughed softly. _How had that happened?_

Eventually, he roused them both and insisted the boy go to his room, change into pajamas, and get into bed. He tucked the boy in, rested his hand on the boy's head and whispered a blessing. The boy's eyes drifted shut. As he turned to leave the room, the boy murmured, "Goodnight, Dad."

He turned to look at the boy, then closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of that flow through him. "Goodnight… Son."

By morning, the Veritaserum-induced connection between them had already started to fade, but no matter. They smiled at each other when the boy – his son – came out of his room, still in pajamas, looking for him. Snape reached out to ruffle the boy's still-mussed hair, and Harry ducked under his arm and attacked his ribs. They wrestled until Harry threw his arms around Snape and hugged him. Snape returned the hug briefly, ruffled the boy's hair again, then pushed him off and told him to go wash up before breakfast.

They headed to breakfast in step, and entered the Great Hall to find their places at the table piled with presents from the faculty and staff, all of whom were in attendance. Potter's – _Harry's _– delight kept echoing through their bond, so that, while Snape was stunned and uncertain, that was overridden by his son's gratitude and joy.

The faculty kept smiling and looking from him to the boy, leaving him bemused, until he finally turned to Minerva and asked, "Do I look different or something?" She laughed lightly up at him, said, "Severus…" and patted his arm.

After breakfast, they headed out to the graveyard to visit Fred and Remus and Tonks, and the love in their hearts echoed back from the headstones somehow, so that they were reminded of Fred and Tonks' laughter, Remus' warm hugs, jokes played by the twins and Tonks, and of Remus, James and Sirius' schoolboy pranks… and left their three loved ones with a pumpkin juice toast, Snape refusing the boy's – _his son's_ – request for fire whiskey, judging that their systems were still too affected by Veritaserum to add spirits to the mix.

Back in their quarters, Snape called Harry to him at his desk, pulled a small box from a drawer, and handed it to the boy. Harry raised his eyebrows. "What's this?"

"Open it, silly boy!" Snape said, smiling.

Harry lifted the lid of the box to reveal a long chain, from which dangled a silver charm the size of a sickle, with the Tree of Life emblazoned on it. He looked up at Snape in inquiry.

"I want you to wear it," Snape said, taking it from the box and dropping the chain around Harry's head. He tucked the charm under the boy's shirt, against his chest. "If you touch it with your hand, or even think your way into it, I'll know you need me," he said softly. "I'll be able to find you, no matter where you are, and I'll come."

Harry gave him a watery smile. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered.

Snape's lips twitched and he shook his head. "It's going to take me a while to get used to that," he said.

"I didn't give you anything," Harry said, rubbing his hand over the place where the charm lay against his skin.

"You just did. Now – let's talk about tomorrow."

* * *

_That was Chapter 29 of 30. Next one's the last... WHY?_


	31. The Potions Master

Let me take a moment to thank you for sticking with me this far. Thanks for caring that much. For having faith in my writing. It's been an honor to write for you. I hope you liked it. In any case... the things you know are Jo's are Jo's... the rest is mine, though I've loved sharing it with you. Please let me know what you think of the whole of it. 3

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE POTIONS MASTER

Students returned on the train the next day. A first year had fallen into the lake, returned to her boat by the giant squid. Snape dried the girl off with the wave of his wand, trying, with difficulty, to remain firm with her in front of the other first years. As the Headmistress' second in command, he led the Sorting Ceremony – a strange experience, as he had never participated in it except when he was sorted, and then observing from the Slytherin table, and later, from the faculty table.

He opened the doors to find the Great Hall much noisier than usual. Students were still milling around, with much more between-table conversation than there had been before. The returning eighth years from Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and the one returning eighth year Slytherin surrounded Potter, neatly guarding him, fending off the merely curious with flinty, pointed glares. He caught McGonagall's eye and she rapped for attention. "Please be seated!" she called, and there was a mad scramble for seats as the students turned to look at the procession of first years.

Snape led them to stand before the head table, turning them to face their peers, then back to the dais and the stool upon which sat the torn, mended, slightly-the-worse-for-wear Sorting Hat. It opened one rip near its brim to begin its poetic tale, and the Hall fell silent, wondering what this year's bad poetry would bring. The Hat admonished them to overcome the divisions of House to retain the bonds of friendship forged during the Battle, and to hold their love for those now in residence at the Black Lake in their hearts. It protested Sorting, as it had done before, and suggested they prepare for changes. It sang the virtues of each House more optimistically than it had before, and Snape eyed the Slytherin table, slightly emptier than usual before Sorting, dubiously, then shrugged. _Not his concern, thank Merlin._

The first person on his list was the formerly soggy girl, now a Gryffindor. _Well,_ he thought, _that was predictable._ She turned and grinned at him and he felt his lip twitch in reply. The entire Hall cheered, and the girl skipped off to sit next to Ginny Weasley, now Quidditch Captain. His eyes flicked to Potter's – _Harry's_ – and he shook his head and smiled slightly in shared amusement.

The second person sorted was a dark-haired, exotic-looking girl who eyed the Hat beadily before she sat down, taking no note of Snape glaring down at her. The Hat was silent for long moments, then shouted, "SLYTHERIN!" There was a general gasp from those at the Slytherin table, echoed here and there from around the Hall.

"But – she's MUGGLEBORN!" someone at the Slytherin table protested above the hubbub.

The girl plucked the hat off her head, tossed it back on the stool and sauntered to the Slytherin table. "That's right – Muggleborn! Who wants to be friends with the _first Muggleborn to be sorted into Slytherin House?_ What am I bid, ladies and gentlemen?" There was laughter and the Hall broke into cheers and applause again.

Snape sighed and shook his head, turning slightly to look at McGonagall out of the corner of his eye. Her lips were pressed tightly together, but he saw them twitch in amusement. He snorted and called the next name in the roll. Each pronouncement of the Hat's was greeted with cheers from the entire Hall. Snape wondered how that would play out once House points began to be awarded and deducted and the competition for House Cup began in earnest with Quidditch season.

More students were Sorted into Slytherin than usual, to balance the House enrollment. Two other Muggleborns joined the table, their eyes calculating how they could best take advantage of their status while it lasted. Snape found himself exceedingly grateful not to be in charge of _that _lot, though… he eyed the now-dry, giggling girl next to Ginny Weasley. _Gryffindors._ He shook his head. _This will be… different._

The Hall was noisier than usual throughout the feast, quieting only for the Headmistress' address, her welcome less idiosyncratic than Dumbledore's, but as warm, or warmer, for all her sternness. She gave the usual warnings against entering the Forbidden Forest despite that it was surely safer this year than in years gone by, and acceded to Filch's request that she remind them not to drag mud through the halls on rainy days, as the new flagstone was still curing.

She talked about the fifty-four fallen heroes lying by the Black Lake, and invited students to visit them, admonishing them to "Try for just the tiniest bit of respect," shaking her head when someone giggled. She made a point of inviting students to visit her in her office if they needed someone to talk with, said that the faculty stood ready to help those who might have trouble adjusting to being back at school, back at the site of the Battle, and encouraged those with nightmares to seek Madam Pomfrey for Draught of Dreamless Sleep. Poppy leaned forward to catch Snape's eye, and he nodded. A cauldron of that potion was already cooling in its vials in his lab. The feast ended with a moment of silence, then renewed babble as the students pushed back benches to get to their feet.

The students went off to their House common rooms, but Hermione, Ginny, and Neville joined him and Harry for a quiet discussion and tea before they went off to Gryffindor Tower and their beds, after his reminder that he would not tolerate any tardiness in seventh-year Potions, which would meet immediately after breakfast on the morrow. He and Harry sat talking over a game of chess, until Snape reminded Harry that they needed to be up early the next day. He got ready for bed, then went to lean against the door frame to Potter's room, his arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, watching the boy settle in.

"Dad?" the boy said from his bed.

He shook his head and laughed, his heart still feeling an echo from Potter's. "What is it?"

"I love you, Dad."

He walked to Harry's bed and drew the blankets up around him. "Go to sleep, silly boy," he said softly, but he let his fingers drift across the boy's head in blessing and the boy turned onto his side, his eyes closing, a smile on his face.

Snape strode into the potions classroom on September second, his black robes flaring, the door slamming shut behind him. He took the dais and spun to face the class of NEWT level students, who, for some reason, did not fall into the instant silence he had come to expect.

"Quiet," he drawled. They quieted, but turned expectant, curious, and… unintimidated… faces on him. He glared at them.

There were rather more students present than usually made it to this level, partly because of the inclusion of older students who had been unable to attend the past year due to being on the run, or who had missed much of the year due to the need to hide in the Room of Requirement. Among those who were taking advantage of the opportunity to remediate were Hermione Granger, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Neville Longbottom, whose request to attend Snape found he did not want to, _could not_, deny. And, of course, Potter. They joined Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and other seventh years from all four Houses for this introductory lesson, after which they would be split into two smaller groups, for safety's sake. Even then, the groups would be larger than usual.

"As our classroom will be crowded this term, I expect your complete cooperation and undivided attention during _all_ classes," he said in a soft, menacing voice. "Any student not paying close attention, or causing damage to others through carelessness will be… invited… to… leave. Is that clear? Yes? Let's begin."

He read the roll. When he came to Potter's name, he glared at him over his parchment. Harry grinned at him. Hermione Granger, to the boy's right, elbowed him, but she too grinned, her eyes gleaming. Ginny Weasley, behind him, looked up at Snape, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter. Neville had a lopsided smile on his face. Snape flicked his eyes to the rest of the room, watching him expectantly, and sighed. Discipline was going to be difficult.

"Mr. Potter," he drawled. "Our… resident… hero. How kind of you to join us, as you deemed it unnecessary to attend school _your entire seventh year_. I suppose you thought you did not need… the education." He narrowed his eyes at the boy.

Several students muttered something hostile, of which he did not bother to take note.

"Tell me, Mr. Potter…" he said, leaving his desk and crossing the room to stand in front of the boy, gathering his robe in his hands to cross his arms severely over his chest. He glared down at the boy, his eyes glittering. "What would you have if you combined Ashwagandha root and long pepper oil?"

The muttering renewed.

"You would have the ingredients for an anti-inflammatory, sedative and calming tea, Professor," Potter said calmly. "It also enhances… libido." His eyes sparkled.

Snape's lip twitched and Granger choked. He glared at her. "Control yourself, Miss Granger." He turned back to Potter and went to ask something else, but the boy continued his reply. "However, Professor, one would also need to add honey. Sir."

"And – _why _would one need the honey, Mr. Potter?"

"Honey would enhance the anti-inflammatory effect of the potion… Professor."

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. "_And, _Mr. Potter?" he drawled.

"And it makes the potion drinkable, Professor. One should never underestimate the curative effects of taste."

"And what, Mr. Potter, are the main ingredients for… Veritaserum?" he asked, drawing out the word meaningfully.

"Valerian, motherwort and linden, Sir," Potter stated calmly. "And it requires a full moon cycle to mature."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter. When I wish for additional information… I… shall… ask. Prior to that, kindly refrain from additional commentary."

The boy glared at him, though his eyes twinkled.

"And what, Mr. Potter, are the main effects of Veritaserum?"

"Veritaserum is a truth serum, Professor. The main effects are that the person is unable to lie to others," the boy said, looking him solidly in the eyes. "Or even to themselves. Sir."

"And… is there any antidote or method to prevent the serum from working, Mr. Potter?"

"Not when made by a potions _master_, Sir."

He stared at the boy. "And… tell me, Mr. Potter, do you know any… _potions masters_?" he drawled out.

"Yes. I do. You. Sir," the boy said, narrowing his eyes at him.

"Indeed."

He glared at the boy through his own narrowed eyes, his arms firmly crossed over his chest, his eyes glittering blackly, for a full ten seconds, the tension in the room palpable. He spun on his heel and returned to the front of the class, where he picked up a quill and dipped it in the inkwell on his desk, preparatory to checking off the boy's name in the roll.

"Well said, Mr. Potter. Five points to Gryffindor," he muttered.

A gasp went up from around the room, and Ginny turned a laugh into a cough. He glared at the class from the corner of his eye. The boy grinned up at him.

"Thanks… Dad."

Hermione ducked her head down to her hand, shoulders shaking with laughter as more gasps came from around the room. Ginny grinned openly. Neville turned around to meet Luna Lovegood's eyes, smiling.

"That's lovely!" came Luna's ethereal voice.

"_You're joking!?_" someone – Seamus Finnigan, he thought, burst into the sudden silence.

The rest of the class was staring up at Snape blankly, immobile, shock written all over their faces, then turning to stare at Potter as if expecting him to look hexed.

"Why aren't the rest of you copying that down? And turn to page 245, where you will find the directions for the potion in question. You have one hour."

No one moved.

"Well… _what are you waiting for?_" he snapped. "_Page 245!_" and the class jumped and threw open their books. He glanced at Potter, who looked up at him, still grinning. He narrowed his eyes at him once more.

"When we are in this room, _Mr. Potter_, you will address me as _Professor _or _Sir._ Is that clear… Son?"

"Yes, Sir," the boy said, trying not to laugh.

"Cheeky boy," he muttered.

"Veritaserum is not really effective," Luna Lovegood commented into the rustle of turning pages. "My father says only the heart knows the truth."

Hermione and Ginny laughed out loud. Seamus snorted and shook his head.

"Oh, shut it, Seamus," Ginny said mildly.

Snape sighed. Discipline was going to be _exceedingly _difficult.

***** A New Beginning *****


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